Chapter 5 - Mystic Fire

Chapter 5 - Mystic Fire

The camp lay nestled in a quiet basin, tucked beneath a gentle slope where a narrow stream wound its way through stones and tangled reeds. The sun had just slipped behind the ridge, bathing the landscape in a warm, amber glow. Tents stood like silent sentinels, their canvas catching the last light of day, while thin plumes of smoke curled lazily from cookfires into the evening air. The mingled scents of charred meat, boiled roots, and oiled leather drifted through the camp, blending with the fresh, earthen breeze of dusk.

Upon the hillside, soldiers patrolled, silhouetted against the amber sky, watching over the peace of the valley like dark statues. Below, serfs worked purposefully — filling water barrels by the stream, hammering in tent pegs and stirring pots under the watchful eye of the supply officer, who barked orders in a sharp tone that echoed throughout the basin.

Ashborn and Valyn rode in slow circles around the perimeter of the camp, their horses taking careful steps through the terrain. When they finally dismounted near the central fire pit — where thick logs were already crackling — they passed their reins to a stablehand and sat themselves on the smooth, time-worn stones arranged in a ring around the flames.

Valyn opened the seal of a leather flask and handed it over.

"Beer from Graymere," he said with a grin. "Better than what the quartermaster is hoarding." Ashborn took it and drank deeply. The brew was sharp, nutty and had a faint hint of herbs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed it back.

"Gods," he muttered. "This hits harder than I expected." Valyn chuckled. "That's because your palate has gone soft. You need to train it again."

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rustle of the wind in the tall grass and the soft thump of hammer and boot. The fire crackled and sent sparks flying into the darkening sky.

Ashborn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared into the flame. "Valyn," he began in a low voice, "have you ever felt... like you're remembering something that doesn't belong to you?" Valyn gave him a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"For the past few weeks, especially since the battle, I've had these dreams. Vivid dreams. Every night without fail." Ashborn rubbed his temple. "It's not like normal dreams. I wake up... knowing things. Things no one here should know."

Valyn raised a brow, interested but cautious. "Go on." Ashborn took the flask again, more out of habit than thirst. "It's a world—no, a whole other world. Towering cities made of glass and steel. Roads without horses, lights that shine without flame. People dressed in colourful clothes, speaking into boxes no bigger than a palm, and somehow hearing one another."

Valyn frowned. "Sorcery?"

"No," Ashborn said, eyes distant. "Not magic. Logic. Engineering. Ideas that defy everything we know. They have no kings, no barons—just voices, opinions, and something they call 'freedom.' It's terrifying. But it's... beautiful, too."

Valyn was silent for a moment, then drank. "And you see this world in your dreams?" "Not just see it," Ashborn said. "I remember being someone else. Living there. A different name, a different life. No sword. No war. Just... questions, curiosity, and an aching desire to understand everything. I think-" He hesitated, lowering his voice. "I think I was someone else before I was Ashborn."

Valyn sat back, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "I've travelled most of the Empire, even spent a season beyond the Myrthaine. I've seen priests claim men can be reborn as animals, and shamans who speak of past lives walking beside us. I never gave it much thought."

Ashborn managed a dry laugh. "And now?"

"I think," Valyn said slowly, "that whatever the truth is, I know that you're not mad. And if these memories are real—or even half real—then they're yours now. And perhaps meant to be."

Ashborn stared at the flames again, the dancing light reflecting in his sombre eyes. "I don't know what it means. But I can't ignore it. That world... it haunts me, Valyn. It feels like a forbidden library. I can see it, but I can't access it."

Valyn handed him back the flask and stood, brushing ash from his cloak. "Maybe the time will come when you unlock the gates to it, for now, consider you've been given a gift, Ashborn—visions of a different way to live. Maybe that's what we need, technology from a different world." Valyn chuckled.

Ashborn looked up at his friend, and for a moment, the fire between them warmed more than just their hands. Ashborn leaned back, the crackle of the fire licking at the silence between them. He took a long sip from the flask before handing it back to Valyn.

"I keep hearing his name," he said quietly. "Aragorn, Count of Rohad. My brother. People speak of him with respect, even fear, but... I don't remember him. Not a face, not a voice."

Valyn glanced over, his expression thoughtful. "You truly don't recall anything?" Ashborn shook his head slowly. "Only the name. It echoes in my mind, but hollow. Like a title carved into stone worn smooth by time."

Valyn stared into the fire for a moment, then exhaled through his nose.

"Well," he said, "then let me paint you a picture." Ashborn turned to listen.

"Count Aragorn of Rohad isn't just your brother—he's one of the pillars of the Empire. He commands the Ironlands, where the mines run like veins through the stone, feeding the Empire's forges. Without him, the Crown's armour would rust and the war engines would go silent."

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. "He's not flashy. Doesn't chase glory like some of the northern nobles. No tournaments. No poetry. But by the gods, he knows how to lead. Ten thousand elite soldiers under his banner—trained, disciplined, loyal. Not conscripts. Professionals. Every one of them owes their pay, their armour, and often their lives to him."

Ashborn's brows drew together. "And he's done all this... alone?" Valyn chuckled. "Hardly. He married well—Elira Rose, daughter of Duke Iris of Rodon. That alliance alone secured Rohad's trade through the southern sea routes. Rodon's a port city so rich, they measure gold in weight, not coin. Half a million souls, and a standing army of fifty thousand elite marines and city guards."

Ashborn blinked at that. "And the Duke? Is he as dangerous as he sounds?" Valyn nodded. "I met Iris Rose once—cold-eyed, sharp-tongued, and always five steps ahead of anyone in the room. But Aragorn held his ground. Didn't flatter, didn't bend. That's why the Duke respects him."

Ashborn's gaze drifted again. "And what about me? I mean... before."

Valyn's expression softened. "You were the younger brother. Curious, smart, but full of fire. Aragorn didn't dote on you—he wasn't the type. But he always watched you. I saw it. When you'd pick fights with the other noble boys or sneak off to the stables, he'd follow. Not to scold, just to make sure you made it back. I remember once, you fell from the east tower trying to climb the ivy. Broke your arm in two places."

Ashborn grimaced instinctively, though no memory surfaced. "Aragorn carried you himself down the stairs," Valyn continued. "Didn't call for servants. Didn't shout. Just calmly carried you to the Priest of Light."

Ashborn swallowed. "He sounds like the kind of man born to rule the world." Valyn nodded. "Maybe, but his love for you hasn't diminished despite what happened to your memory, Ashborn; he hasn't stopped sending riders or holding your seat at court."

Ashborn looked down at his hands, the fire casting shadows across his knuckles. "I wish I could remember him. Feel what I'm supposed to feel. But right now... It's just emptiness."

Valyn placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "Then start from where you are. Let me help you fill the gap. One story at a time." Ashborn gave a slow, solemn nod. "Thank you, Valyn."

And beneath the quiet stars, in the hum of a camp settling into sleep, two men sat by the fire, one burdened by forgotten blood, the other trying to keep the flame of memory alive.

The fire had burned low, the last embers glowing like dying stars in the stone circle. Smoke curled lazily into the night, barely disturbed by the wind.

Ashborn stood, brushing a fine coat of ash from his cloak. "I think I'll turn in," he said, his voice rough with fatigue.

Valyn leaned forward from his seat on the log, uncorking the flask again for one final sip. "Sleep while you can. Tomorrow, we ride the bumpy roads." He raised the flask. "To long roads and longer nights."

Ashborn offered a tired smirk. "Let's hope the fief's wine cellars are better than this." Valyn chuckled, corking the flask. "You're nobility again, Ashborn. You're allowed to demand the good stuff."

Ashborn gave a faint nod and turned, boots crunching softly against the earth as he walked toward his tent. The canvas flapped gently in the

breeze, beckoning like a curtain between worlds.

Behind him, the camp had settled into a quiet hush. Serfs dozed in clusters near the supply wagons, wrapped in thick blankets. Soldiers awake beneath heavy woollen cloaks, their weapons cradled close to their chests. Beyond the slope, the night wind stirred the trees, rustling the leaves with a voice like distant whispers.

Within his tent, Ashborn shrugged off his coat, dust clinging to the fabric of his tunic. He set his sword down beside the bedroll; the blade caught the firelight for a fleeting heartbeat, gleaming cold and silent before slipping into shadow.

He lay back with a quiet exhale, feeling the deep ache of the saddle settle into his spine. Sleep took him swiftly, pulled down by the warmth of the fire, the lull of ale, and the weight of quiet thoughts.

But just as he drifted into the promise of deep rest, something stirred.

It began as warmth, subtle and steady—a slow pulse in his chest, like embers rekindling in the hearth of his bones. Then it spread, threading outward, seeping into muscle and marrow, crawling across every nerve like prairie fire.

Something was wrong, it wasn't pain. Not exactly.

Heat surged through him, along his ribs, down his arms, crawling up his neck. His skin started burning from within. His limbs started twitching beneath the blanket, muscles spasming. A groan slipped from his lips as sweat poured down his face.

Then suddenly, a flash shattered his dream, a searing green light that split the sky like a blade, so vivid it etched itself behind his eyes. Ashborn jerked awake, gasping, as if yanked from sleep by an invisible spear buried deep in his chest. His body was drenched in sweat, the linen of his tunic plastered to his skin. His breath came in sharp, ragged pulls.

"Water," he croaked. His hand fumbled blindly for the clay jug beside his bedroll. He drank in greedy gulps, the lukewarm liquid soothing his parched throat but failing to quench the feverish heat still coiling beneath his flesh. The fire hadn't left him. It had merely waited.

Something calling. Raw and ancient.

Just as he began to dismiss it as a dream, a blinding green light tore across the sky, so fierce it turned the tent's canvas into a glowing sheet of emerald. Even with his eyes clenched shut, it scorched itself into his mind.

He lurched to his feet, breath catching, and stumbled outside. The cold night air struck his face like a slap, sharp and bracing. Above the treetops, the heavens still shimmered with the fading trail of that unnatural brilliance—a lingering arc of emerald fire that came falling from the sky.

Then he saw it, another flash, even brighter and closer this time, streaking downward like a falling star before vanishing into the forest, swallowed by the dark. Ashborn froze. For a heartbeat, his world held its breath.

A deep, rumbling force stirred within him, rising like a tide against his will. Pain lanced through his limbs, forcing him to his knees as if the earth itself had tightened its grip. His breath hitched. Muscles trembled. The pull was undeniable, his very aura was drawn toward where the star had fallen. Instinct took hold of him, he was compelled to move.

He got up and turned sharply, and strode across the camp, boots stomping the damp ground. He yanked open Valyn's tent flap. "Up. Now."

Valyn jolted awake, hand going to his sword. "Ashborn? What in the hell is-"

"Something fell," Ashborn said, voice high and urgent. "From the sky. Green light. I saw it, I felt it. It wasn't natural." Valyn blinked. "Are you sure you are not dreaming?"

Ashborn met his eyes. "No. I'm burning up. My aura is acting weird. And I'm telling you… Whatever it was, it's close." There was something in his voice. Not desperation. Something colder. A Certainty.

Valyn didn't argue. He reached for his boots. "How many knights?"

"All of them." Ashborn moved fast, waking the camp with sharp commands. "Alde!" he called, shaking the old wizard awake.

Alde groaned. "What is it?"

"The knights are ready. Dress up in ten minutes. We're hunting something."

"To hunt?" Alde muttered, half-lucid. "What the abyss are we-"

Ashborn turned, voice like steel. "I don't know. But we're not waiting to find out." Valyn was already at his side, strapping on his breastplate.

The soldiers stirred. Some murmured. Others snapped to motion, trained reflexes kicking in as armour was fastened and torches were lit. "You're certain this is wise?" Valyn muttered as they mounted up.

Ashborn gripped his reins. His heart was still pounding-not with fear, but with anxiety. A thread pulled taut inside his chest. "No, but it's necessary."

Valyn held his gaze for a breath, then looked forward. "Then let's go find the fallen star." Ashborn turned to the forest. The emerald trail still shimmered above the canopy like a question only he could answer.

He drew his blade and pointed forward.

"Ride!"

And forty horses thundered into the night, the green-lit sky watching in silence.

The forest closed around them like a vault of shadow. Trees rose in twisted, ancient forms, their limbs reaching skyward as if clawing at the stars. Mist wove through the trunks in lazy coils, thick and low, clinging to boots and hooves like grasping fingers. It draped the underbrush in ghostly shrouds, turning every shape into something half-seen and uncertain.

Torchlight struggled against the damp, casting flickering glows that danced across moss-darkened bark. The shadows it birthed swayed like restless spirits, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

No birdsong. No chirping insects. Not even the whisper of wind through the leaves. It was as if the entire forest had paused to listen, holding its breath in quiet dread.

Alde urged his horse closer to Ashborn, his hand caressing the arcane rings through which he casts his spells. "Do you feel that?" he murmured. Ashborn nodded, gaze locked ahead. "The forest is too quiet."

Valyn glanced over his shoulder, counting heads. "We're close. I can feel it." And then they caught the scent—sharp, acrid, unmistakable.

"Burnt earth," Valyn said quietly. The undergrowth thinned. The trees, as if scorched by divine anger, broke apart to reveal a clearing that seemed to be broken from the world. A crater lay ahead, wide as a village square, its centre blackened and cracked, as though the land itself had been struck by a vengeful god.

The perimeter bore the scars of something unnatural. Trees within ten meters were reduced to husks, their trunks collapsed into grey ash. The very soil seemed to recoil from the centre, fissures etched like veins across its surface. Nothing moved. Nothing dared. At the heart of it floated a flame.

No ordinary fire. It hung suspended in the air, no larger than a melon, yet it kept pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat. A deep, emerald glow radiating outward, distorting the air with each wave of its energy. Its light was soft, hypnotic, but it still carried an oppressive weight, like you are standing beneath a thunderstorm moments before the strike.

Ashborn reined in his nervous horse at the crater's edge. He dismounted cautiously, stepping on the burnt ground, his aura pulsing like never before, wanting to devour the ball in the air.

"That," he breathed, "is what I saw." Valyn stepped forward, cautious but mesmerised. His cloak brushed ash as he walked. "That's not flame... It's something else entirely."

Alde whispered to himself, "Mystic Fire..."

Mystic fire, flames born not of wood or oil, but of the earth's heart, the stars above, and the raw breath of the elements. Unlike ordinary fire, they cannot be quenched by water or smothered by wind. Once ignited, they cling to their target with relentless hunger, reducing all to ash and memory.

To seek a mystic fire is idiotic. They cannot be found—only encountered. Some lie hidden in the hollow veins of the world, slumbering beneath stone and time. Others fall from the heavens like omens, choosing their place and hour with uncanny precision. Whether buried deep or dropping before one's feet, their appearance is a matter of fate, not effort.

For those deemed worthy—knights, or sorcerers—mystic fire may be absorbed, binding itself to the bearer's heart and altering the very nature of their flame. Each carries its own essence: some sear with such intensity they can burn through void itself, others chill the air with ice-born heatless flame, and a rare few burn invisibly, leaving no trace but ruin. Some feed cultivation, accelerating the path to power, while others awaken slumbering potential.

A knight who inherits one finds their strength multiplied fivefold, their presence igniting awe—and fear.

Ashborn, for all his knowledge, could not say what kind of fire this was. Only that it pulsed with something ancient. And that it had chosen him.

But before he could take another step, a harsh and old rumble rolled across the clearing. "Hold!" Alde barked, his voice slicing through the stillness like a sword.

From the treeline opposite them, shapes moved, silent as shadows.

Tigers.

But no ordinary tigers which are born from nature. The male emerged first, massive as a wagon, his fur a deep black laced with golden stripes that pulsed with sickly golden light. Each muscle rolled beneath his hide like coiled steel. His eyes-no-beast's eyes-held a resemblance of thought and judgment.

The female was leaner, her silver pelt streaked with stripes of obsidian that shimmered faintly in the emerald glow. Arcane glyphs slithered across her flanks, alive with power. Her paws made no sound. Even the grass bent away from her.

They moved like ghosts, like predators in a world where even the mightiest feared to tread. Ashborn drew his sword, slow and deliberate. "They're not ordinary creatures...Arcane Beasts!"

Arcane beasts are magical creatures born from ordinary animals that have consumed enchanted herbs or tonics. Their physical capabilities far surpass those of their mundane counterparts. Unluckily for us, both of these tigers are at least on par with advanced knights—together, they could easily overwhelm even a Bronze-ranked warrior." Alde whispered to the knights.

"They're watching the flame," Valyn said. He squinted, fingers tightening on his hilt. "They're here for it... just like we are."

"And they won't share," Alde added.

"Neither will we," Ashborn replied.

Indeed, the two great cats circled the crater's edge, eyes locked not on the humans, but on the floating fire. The male growled, low and long—a territorial threat. The female crouched low, muscles coiled like a spring.

"They're not simple," Ashborn murmured. "They know what it is."

"What about us?" Valyn asked, eyes flicking to his lord. "Are you ready?"

Ashborn's gaze remained fixed on the flame. The warmth inside him surged, mirroring the pulse of the orb. It wasn't fear he felt. It was recognition. "It belongs to me." Ashborn declared.

For a heartbeat, all was still. Then the female leapt. Not at the knights, but at the flame. "NOW!" Alde roared.

But before they could intercept the female, the male charged, not at the orb, but straight at Ashborn. A blur of black muscle and metal power. Chaos exploded.

Steel rang as swords were drawn. Horses neighed, knights shouted, and the clearing erupted into motion. The female tiger soared toward the flame, but a volley of arrows intercepted her mid-leap, forcing her to twist midair and land with a snarl.

Valyn stepped forward, blade flashing as he met the male head-on. The impact of claw and steel sent shockwaves through the air. The tiger's metal magic tore through the grass in a slicing arc, shattering a knight's shield and flinging him backwards.

"Form a wall!" Alde bellowed. "Primary to the flanks, intermediates with me!" The knights surged forward, lances braced and shields raised. The female tiger snarled, launching windblades from her paws that cut through spears like straw.

The male met Valyn and Alde with relentless fury. Every strike of his claws was like a hammer, backed by terrifying strength and steel-like claws. Alde ducked a blow that split a tree in half. Valyn countered with a precision slash, his blade scraping across the tiger's enchanted hide, leaving sparks.

"We can't kill them," Valyn growled. "We can barely keep them back."

"We don't need to!" Alde shouted. "Just hold them—Ashborn!"

Ashborn, eyes glowing faintly with green fire, moved toward the crater's heart. The flame pulsed stronger the closer he got, each step feeding the warmth in his chest until it became a burn.

He reached out as the flame broke the cocoon, surging forward. 

His hand touched the flame, it swirling around his finger. It felt- No pain. No resistance. Just fire. Before he could grasp, the entire orb of flames started flooding inside of him, taken back he closed his eyes to feel it and just then it came-

It surged into him like a tidal wave of heat, flooding his veins, igniting his lungs, and seizing his heart in a grip of searing intensity. His body arched violently, breath stolen from his chest, and his vision turned a blinding white as if the world itself had vanished in a flash of fire.

The flame did not resist him, nor did it ask permission. It flowed through him like a living current, smooth as silk and ruthless as a storm. In its passage, it scorched away the lingering remnants of chaotic energy buried deep within him, cleansing his body with unrelenting force.

Ashborn felt his meridians stretch and widen, each channel reshaped to accommodate the surging power.

The once narrow paths of his inner flow now expanded like rivers after a flood, ready to carry more than ever before. And then, the blaring fire settled.

It coiled itself gently within his heart, like a beast curling into its den- alive, waiting, watching. A quiet, enduring heat pulsed within his chest, no longer burning, but simmering. Pulsating a new kind of fire aura, an eerie green flowed within him, with hints of crimson at its edges.

Ashborn opened his eyes, faintly glowing green.

Ashborn stood up from one knee, breathing hard. His hand smoked where it had touched the orb, it was completely scalded and burnt. He clenched his palm, feeling the rest of the skin peeling off. The pain felt horrible.

Ashborn lifted his gaze, around him, the battlefield simmered with tension knights standing wary, weapons bloodied and raised, while the very air trembled with the aftershock of unleashed power.

His eyes locked with the white tigress across the scorched crater. Her chest rose and fell with laboured breath, but her gaze was steady, intelligent and knowing. There was no more rage in her heart, only a reluctant understanding. She let out a long, piercing roar that echoed through the trees like a final declaration of reluctance.

Ashborn didn't flinch. His eyes never left hers as the mystic fire swirled around his hand.

Slowly, the tigress turned her head, not in submission, but in recognition, and took a deliberate step back, her glowing eyes never leaving his. The male tiger snarled, claws digging into the ash-blackened soil, muscles taut with defiance. But when his gaze shifted to the tigress, something passed between them, silent, wordless, but deep. A bond of will. Her message was clear.

He bared his fangs once more, a last show of his pride, then began to retreat, one heavy step at a time. Ashborn extended his hand, and the green flame answered. It flowed from his fingers in smooth, rippling tendrils, living silk laced with emerald light, its presence undeniable. It hummed with latent threat and ancient authority.

His voice, calm and resolute, broke the silence. "Fall back. Or burn."

The words were not shouted, but they rang like a command from the heavens. And for the first time, the tigers obeyed.

With one final growl, they turned as one and disappeared into the treeline, their luminous markings fading into the mist like vanishing stars.