Chapter 13: Scent of Cinders
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the jagged spires of the Vale. Wind blew in cold from the northern cliffs, carrying the scent of iron, ash, and old bones. Jumong kept his cloak tight as he trekked the broken trail, his pack heavier than before—Ember-Stalk glands, salted meat, new scars.
He stopped near a dead tree, notched with claw marks.
"These weren't here a day ago..."
He crouched and examined the gouges—too deep for wolves, too wide for Wargs. He flipped open his Hunter's Beastiary, cross-referencing claw spacing and depth.
[Species: Rellhorn Shrike – Juvenile]
Classification: Class C – Unpredictable and Pack-Based.
Habitat: Rocky cliffs, preying near nesting valleys.
Jumong's eyes narrowed. Shrikes weren't what he'd come here to find—but if they'd nested close, he'd need to move quietly. Or prepare.
Still, the deeper into Kharôth he went, the closer he got to the rumors: sightings of a malformed Flameborn—something old. Something twisted by the Embercore gone wrong.
He pressed on.
The first shrike made no sound. It swooped from the cliff above, talons outstretched. Jumong barely ducked. The creature snapped its beak inches from his scalp.
He rolled, unsheathed Flintfang, and circled up with his back against a rock wall.
The shrike circled overhead. Four more appeared from the misted cliffs.
They chirped in guttural pulses:
"Charr-khrak! Khrak! Trrriin-khak!"
The sounds echoed unnaturally across the rocks.
"Too many," Jumong muttered. "Can't fight here."
He hurled a smoke-pouch against the ground—dirt and gray vapor exploded, masking his dash downslope.
He slid, stumbled, but kept his balance until he reached a cluster of stone pillars. He ducked behind one and drew another pouch—this one filled with bitter fireweed.
"They hate this."
He crushed the pouch and threw it toward the cliffs. The scent dispersed.
The shrikes hesitated. Two flew off. The other three circled uncertainly.
"[Hunter's Breath]."
He focused, slowing his breathing and sharpening his awareness.
When one shrike dove again, he sidestepped and slashed clean across the wing membrane.
It shrieked in pain:
"Skkrrreeeee!"
The others took flight, screeching curses in their tongue. They didn't follow.
___
Jumong built a low fire using emberroot bark. The flames glowed without smoke. He checked the shrike's corpse—cut the talons, wing feathers, and examined its scent glands.
"Too weak for core use… but maybe good for trade."
He pulled out the Beastiary and scribbled notes.
[Addendum: Rellhorn Shrike – Juvenile]
Fireweed powder disperses them. Pack behavior slows at dusk.
He leaned back against the stone wall and stared into the flame.
"Still not ready for what's deeper in here..."
A low howl echoed from far down the valley.
"But I'll keep walking."
His fingers touched the hilt of Flintfang.
"One beast at a time."
Hunter's Beastiary Entry – Updated
Name: Rellhorn Shrike (Juvenile)
Classification: Class C
Danger Level: High in packs – Avoid open terrain in nesting cliffs.
Known Weakness: Smoke and Fireweed repellents.
Language/Vocalization: High-pitched cursing chirps – "Charr-khrak!" and "Trrrin-khak!".
Far above, in a crevice shadowed by dead trees, yellow eyes blinked open.
A massive shape stirred.
"Too close, boy," it whispered in broken Common.
"Too close to what you can't kill..."
Gray light filtered through the heavy cloud cover. The Vale breathed mist and cold into Jumong's camp. He sat cross-legged near the emberroot fire, Flintfang across his knees, eyes fixed on the fresh claw marks burned into stone—the final sign from last night's unseen watcher.
The marks weren't random. There was intent in the angles, even a faint glowing residue from a heated touch.
"Flameborn... but wrong."
He remembered the rumors spoken in half-whispers back in Emberdeep: a malformed Emberborn who'd severed their pact with flame and had been consumed by it. A cursed thing. Exiled to Kharôth long before the Blight Years.
"If it still lives," he muttered, "it's not just surviving. It's feeding."
He opened his pack and laid out his tools: bone-wrought arrowheads, a tamer's binding lash, and three flasks of salted ember oil.
Today wouldn't be a hunt. It would be a trial.
[The Clawpath Ridge]
Jumong ascended slowly, step by step, along a crag known to locals as Clawpath Ridge—named for the dozens of beastly remains found clinging to the stones. As he neared the top, he paused.
Black ash drifted gently down. No smoke, no flame. Just ash.
He touched a smear with his fingers. It sizzled faintly.
"Still hot. Something passed here minutes ago."
He activated [Hunter's Breath], centering his hearing, and crouched low.
There. A sound.
It was not quite a growl. Not quite breathing.
"Rrruuk... hhhsssk..."
Metal dragging on stone. Flame crackling beneath flesh.
He peered over a ridge.
A shape emerged. Ten feet tall, hunched, covered in warped ember-plates. Red runes etched across its hide. The Flameborn—once likely noble—now bore no spark of sanity.
[Creature Identified: Emberwretch – Former Flamebearer]
Classification: Class A – Apex Aberration. Avoid direct conflict.
Jumong's heart pounded. He backed away, slowly, methodically.
"Not now. Need higher ground. Need traps. Observation first."
He left no trail behind.
He found an abandoned hunter's roost—half-collapsed, but serviceable. He lit no fire. He drank only cold water. He scribed every detail into his journal.
____
Behavior: Solitary. Wanders by ash scent. Hates water.
Weakness: None observed. Possibly slowed by cold iron.
Sounds: Hissing breath. Occasional whispering in broken Common.
He could still hear it.
"Rrruuk... rrree-turn... rrree-turrnnn..."
Was it aware of him?
He did not sleep that night.
Hunter's Beastiary Entry – Updated
Name: Emberwretch (Flamefallen)
Classification: Class A
Danger Level: Extreme – Engage only with preparation.
Known Behavior: Obsessive roaming. Ash-trails. Aversion to water.
Language/Vocalization: Warped Common mixed with Ember-syllables.
Down in the ash-river basin, the Emberwretch turned its molten eyes toward the cliffs.
It whispered.
"Flame... remembered... hunter comes."
---
[Kharôth Vale, Emberwretch Watch Post]
The sky hung heavy with fog and flecks of ash as Jumong crouched behind a scorched boulder, eyes fixed on the narrow basin where he last spotted the Emberwretch. He had not slept. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but fear and determination kept his limbs sharp.
He didn't intend to fight the creature. Not alone.
Instead, he worked through the night laying a dozen simple traps: snares of tempered wire, scent-distracting oil lines, and stonefall triggers. Basic hunter's work, scaled up in desperation.
"It won't kill it," Jumong muttered, tying the last of the pressure cords to a dead branch, "but it might slow it. Or piss it off."
The Emberwretch's voice still haunted him.
"Rrrree-turnnn..."
But today, he wasn't the only one listening.
---
[Ember Trail Ridge]
The crunch of boots startled Jumong. He turned, arrow notched.
"Easy," came a voice, crisp and calm. "You're not the only one hunting ash today."
A woman stepped from the mist. Lean, scarred, wrapped in a cloak of mottled leather and black feathers. Her armor bore the sigil of the Galdareth Outer Guild—a crescent over flame.
"Name's Serika. Rank Cinder, Tier Two. You must be the rookie they call 'Goblin Bane.'"
Jumong lowered his bow slowly.
"You Guild?"
"Unofficially. On assignment to track fire-corrupted anomalies. Your big molten friend is on our watchlist."
She looked around at his trapwork.
"Crude. But smart. You're working alone?"
"I was. Still am."
"Not anymore."
---
Serika spread a scroll on the flat rock, showing a map of Kharôth Vale. Three red marks pulsed along the ash river.
"We've tracked Emberwretch sightings across five settlements. Always the same pattern: scorched soil, missing livestock, and whispering before the burn. This one's been dormant for years. Something stirred it."
Jumong studied the markings.
"You think it remembers what it was?"
"Flamebearers don't forget. Not completely. That's the danger. If it was once a high-ranked Pyremancer..."
"Class A?"
"Class S, once. It fell long ago. Now it's unstable. But weakened. It's shedding power to survive. That's why we can track it."
Jumong leaned back.
"I laid traps to draw it. I'm not stupid enough to fight it. Not yet."
Serika smirked.
"Good. Because your traps might just work—if we bait it right."
---
Jumong and Serika took posts on opposing cliffs overlooking the basin. Ash drifted again. This time, heavier.
A groan rolled through the valley. Then another.
"Rrrrr... flame... sss... hunter..."
The Emberwretch moved into the basin, lumbering toward the bait line. It paused at the trap site.
Click.
A wire snapped. A stone dropped. Fire erupted—and the creature roared.
"KRRRRSSSSHHHH!"
It wasn't pain. It was rage.
Jumong fired an arrow laced with Emberroot oil. It struck the beast's back, igniting a controlled flash. It staggered. Another trap snapped, this one binding one leg in wire.
Serika shouted.
"Now! Blinding charge!"
She hurled a grenade. It burst in white flame and smoke. The Emberwretch reeled and screamed.
Jumong pulled Serika back. "We can't finish it! It's not dying."
"We weren't meant to kill it. Just to mark it."
She fired a rune bolt. It embedded in the creature's chest, glowing bright red.
"Guild Hunters will see it now. They'll come. We fall back."
As they fled through the high path, Jumong looked back.
The Emberwretch stood in the basin, rune burning in its chest, clawing at the mark like it wanted to tear its heart out.
"RRRRRRAAAAAHHHHH... HUNTERSSSS..."
Jumong asked quietly, "Would we have survived without the rune?"
Serika shook her head. "No. But we did. Because you prepared. Keep doing that. You'll live longer than most."
---
Far across the vale, a trio of Ember-cloaked Hunters watched the burning rune from a distant cliff.
> "He marked it," one said.
> "The boy from Emberdeep. The orphan."
> "He's ready for something more. But not alone."