Chapter 10: Ember Hunt

The sky was smeared with ash-colored clouds, casting dull light across the forest. Dew still clung to the ferns and roots, yet Jumong's clothes were already damp with the sweat of quiet effort. His muscles ached from the night before, but his eyes were sharp.

Ashwing circled above, letting out a low chirr as she scouted ahead. Jumong knelt, fingers brushing over a deep gouge in the bark of a pine. Black residue clung to the wound in the wood.

"It bled Ember," he muttered.

The Wyrmkin was still alive. Injured, retreating… but very much a threat.

And so Jumong pursued.

The creature's path was not subtle. Branches were snapped, soil was upturned, and a strange, resinous smell lingered—something like burning sap mixed with iron.

Jumong walked with caution. His Emberdagger was now sheathed; his bow drawn instead. Each step brought him deeper into unfamiliar territory.

The forest around him grew darker, not because of the time, but because of the trees. They twisted in strange patterns. Moss grew like tendrils across the trunks, and some bark bore glyphs carved long ago.

He touched one of them.

"The old tongue," he said. "Flamebound… warning, maybe?"

A low vibration stirred in the air. Jumong froze.

"Ghrrrn-hakh… dushtraak..."

He ducked.

A flint-spear flew overhead and slammed into the trunk behind him.

From the shadows came three silhouettes—half-feral humanoids covered in moss and bark-armor. Not goblins. Not orcs.

"Spriggan-kin," Jumong whispered. "Guardians of the old woods."

[Tharn, Rootseer]

"The flame-child enters the hollow grove. The Ember-blooded beast stirred the spirits. Now the boy follows."

Tharn clicked his mandible-like jaws and spoke in the old tongue to his kin.

"Do not kill. Mark him. We watch."

He raised his palm, revealing a seedstone glowing faintly green.

"If he desecrates the grove, let the Wyrm do the judging."

They vanished back into the brambles.

[Later That Day]

He reached a clearing—unnaturally circular, with blackened stone in its center. Ember-scars marked the ground in spirals.

The beast had rested here.

Jumong crouched low. Something tugged at his gut.

"This place... it's not just old. It's sacred."

He touched the soil. Warm.

Suddenly, Ashwing shrieked.

Jumong rolled instinctively as the Wyrmkin leapt from behind a ruined arch of stone, landing hard enough to quake the earth. Its antlers had been chipped, one eye blinded, and scorched patches dotted its hide.

But it was angry.

And ready to kill.

"GRRAHHH-KAATH!!" it bellowed, voice wet with fury.

Jumong drew both his dagger and short blade, steadying his breath. No clever tricks now. Just skill.

"Let's finish what we started."

The Wyrmkin charged.

Jumong sidestepped, slashing its side. Ember burst from the wound like a bleeding firefly.

It roared again, sweeping its branchlike arm. Jumong ducked under the blow, slicing at its limb—but bark turned the blade.

Ashwing dove, scratching the beast's good eye.

"RAAGHHHH!"

It reared, smashing a stone pillar in rage.

Jumong used the distraction to plant two flint-bombs beneath its feet.

"Detonate."

The twin blasts staggered it, but it didn't fall.

"Tough bastard…"

He was breathing hard now. Bruised, bleeding from his temple.

"Not enough…"

The Wyrmkin charged again.

This time, Jumong didn't dodge.

He ran toward it.

As the two collided, a sharp whistle echoed from the trees.

The Spriggan-kin emerged once more—but this time, with weapons lowered.

"Stop," Tharn said. "This is not your quarry alone."

Jumong turned, blades raised.

"Then help me. Or get out of my way."

Tharn studied him, his barked mask unreadable.

"You hunt the Ember-wyrm… but its blood stains you. Why?"

Jumong looked the beast in the eye.

"Because it reminds me of what I could become."

The Wyrmkin roared once more.

And the Spriggans joined the fight.

In the roots beneath the clearing, something ancient stirred. Not beast. Not plant.

A relic.

Waiting.

Watching.

Calling to fire and to blood.

"Ashblood… awaken."

[Ember Hollow, Deep Southern Galdareth]

The scorched clearing trembled beneath the weight of three powers: fire, flesh, and the will of the ancient forest. The Wyrmkin bellowed again, its horned silhouette casting a great shadow across the carved stones. Ash fell like snow. The heat of the creature's breath shimmered in the air, searing the ferns.

Jumong stood tense, body bruised and bloodied, blades glinting with a film of glowing ichor. On either side of him, the Spriggan-kin fanned out in a ritual formation. Tharn, the Rootseer, raised his staff of woven antlers.

"Emberblooded beast, this grove has judged you. By rite of flame and root, your madness ends here."

The Wyrmkin pawed the earth, then roared—a sound that vibrated through marrow and moss.

"GRRUHHHK-RAAATH!"

It charged again.

This was no longer his prey alone.

As the Wyrmkin lunged, a Spriggan warrior—Lishk—leapt across its flank, vines binding her legs as she spun midair and hurled thorns into the beast's neck. It thrashed, but not fast enough to stop Jumong's slash at its underbelly.

"Its armor's thicker around the back," Jumong shouted.

"Strike the throat," Tharn called. "Its core smolders there."

The Wyrmkin released a torrent of molten spittle, narrowly missing Ashwing as she spiraled through the air.

Jumong darted behind broken stone, panting.

"Still not enough power... no Embercraft. Just blades and grit."

He gritted his teeth. His last flint-bomb had failed to ignite—damp powder.

He couldn't keep pace with the Spriggans' mystical harmony. Vines, spores, and bark armor bloomed with each gesture they made.

"This… this is the kind of strength I lack."

Yet still, he fought.

Tharn studied the human. He was no flame-born. No child of prophecy. Just a scarred, persistent soul who knew how to bleed without retreat.

"He does not bend to fear," Tharn murmured. "Nor to pride."

He lifted his staff and called to the spirits of the hollow.

"Old roots, lend us your wrath!"

Roots beneath the Wyrmkin erupted, grabbing its limbs and slowing its momentum. It roared in frustration, ember-smoke pouring from its wounds.

"Draakh… shanathhrrrkk…"

Its voice changed.

Not beastly. Clearer. A sentence.

Tharn's eyes widened.

"It speaks…"

He heard it too. Not just snarls and rage. Words. Ancient, but almost decipherable.

The Wyrmkin's body pulsed with internal fire—too rhythmic for mere rage. Like it was… remembering.

"You're not a wild beast, are you?" Jumong whispered.

He dashed forward. Not to strike, but to see.

The Wyrmkin locked eyes with him. Not animalistic. Intelligent. Pained.

"What are you?"

"Flame… stolen… lost…"

Jumong's breath caught. The words weren't perfect, but they echoed something he'd heard in the forge—a voice from the Embercraft vision.

Could this Wyrmkin… have once been Flame-touched?

"You're not just prey," he whispered. "You're a remnant."

The creature reared.

"Tharn, wait—don't kill it!"

But it was too late.

Spriggan roots burst upward, entangling the beast fully. Its limbs snapped back; its chest heaved with molten fury.

Tharn raised his staff.

"By the Grove's law—!"

"NO!" Jumong yelled.

He threw himself forward.

The moment his hand touched the Wyrmkin's snout, the creature's eyes glowed—an intense ember.

A flash.

A memory.

___

Jumong stood in a field of fire. Before him were warriors of flame and scale—humanoid but burning with runes. One of them—a Wyrm-cloaked figure—held a spear of molten ore.

"Guard the Flame. Even if you lose your form."

He looked down.

He was the beast.

He was the protector.

Then pain.

Flame stolen.

Form shattered.

Voice silenced.

Until…

___

Jumong collapsed to the ground.

The Wyrmkin, panting, lowered its head.

Not dead.

But… bound.

Tharn stared in awe.

"You touched its memory…"

Jumong stood weakly.

"It's not evil. It's cursed. It was something else once."

Tharn nodded slowly.

"Then the forest has chosen mercy."

He drove his staff into the earth. Roots receded. The Wyrmkin curled up beside a scorched tree, no longer growling.

"It will not follow you. But it will not resist either."

Jumong turned.

"That's enough for now."

He sheathed his blade, chest heaving.

"I still have so much to learn…"

Far in the canopy, a small crow watched with ember eyes.

Then turned and flew west.

Toward the Emberroad.

And toward those who once bore flame.

They have seen the spark rekindle.