Chapter 30 Ash

I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon

________________________________________

Chapter Thirty: Fire and Ash

Lucas's Perspective

I came back to consciousness slowly, as if surfacing from beneath deep, dark water. The first thing I noticed was the crackle—subtle at first, then unmistakable. Fire. Alive, breathing, whispering through dry wood. Its light danced across the stone ceiling above me, casting long shadows like ghosts at play.

The ceiling was smooth, worn down by time and nature, dappled with the golden flicker of flame. I blinked a few times, confused by the warmth on my skin, the way the light moved. My thoughts felt sluggish, disjointed. But then I began to remember.

The fight. The pain. The cold edge of death, sinking deep into my belly.

And yet, I felt... fine. Better than fine, actually.

I pushed myself upright, somehow surprised by the absence of pain. My hands roamed over my body, expecting resistance, expecting the dull throb of wounds freshly closed—but I found none. Not even a scar. The gaping injury I'd suffered, had vanished completely. Like it had never happened.

My body felt whole. Healed. Restored.

But the hollowness inside told a different story.

My stomach twisted and groaned like something feral, an insatiable animal gnashing its teeth. Healing from my wounds had left me drained, starving. I hadn't even moved, and yet I felt like I'd just run a marathon uphill in full armor.

Then I heard movement. A shift of weight. Something heavy dropped to my chest with a dull thud, making me flinch before I realized it wasn't a threat.

A bag.

I looked up.

Richard stood a few feet away, his silhouette half-lit by the fire, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. He didn't look at me.

"Eat," he said simply, the word clipped and devoid of ceremony. He returned to what he was doing—arranging wood, methodically, carefully, building something wide and deliberate at the center of the cave floor.

A pyre.

I unzipped the bag and was hit with the scent of salt, protein, and something sweet. It was a soldier's ration—beef jerky, energy bars, trail mix, dried fruit, and little green cubes marked Energy Chews. All of it engineered to deliver calories in the smallest, most efficient packages.

I didn't hesitate.

I just tore into it, tearing through plastic and foil like a man possessed. The food disappeared into me faster than I could register it. Each bite was a jolt of life, a necessary violence against the emptiness inside me. I wasn't eating for comfort or pleasure—I was fueling a machine that had been completely run dry. I could've eaten everything twice over and still wanted more.

Richard didn't comment. He just worked in silence, the firelight catching on the edge of his jaw, his hands steady as he stacked the final logs.

When I'd finally eaten enough to feel human again, I got to my feet. My legs were shaky, but they held. My body no longer screamed for sustenance, though a cheeseburger the size of my head still wouldn't have gone unappreciated.

I walked toward him slowly, the last strip of jerky hanging loosely from my hand.

And then I saw it.

Henry.

He was already lying atop the pyre. His body had been arranged with care—arms crossed over his chest, his features still and calm. Peaceful, in a way that felt strange, foreign. Peace didn't belong here. Not after everything.

I stopped beside Richard, standing just close enough to feel the heat of the fire and the weight of silence between us.

We didn't speak. What could be said?

No matter what Henry had become, no matter how far he'd fallen or how twisted he'd grown, he had once been someone important. Someone good. Richard's partner. His friend. Maybe more than that. Maybe a brother not by blood, but by battle.

Time dragged on, heavy and dense.

Finally, Richard broke the silence.

"He was a good man once," he said, not turning his head. His eyes remained locked on Henry, as though looking away would make it too real. "Before all of this. Helped more people than I could count. Saved lives."

His voice was low and even, but I could hear the tremor underneath. Not weakness. Something else. Something harder to name.

I didn't offer condolences. Words like I'm sorry felt useless here—thin and brittle against the weight of what he had lost. So I just stood there, beside him, as he reached into his pocket and struck a match.

The flame flared to life with a hiss.

He leaned in, touched it to the kindling beneath the body.

A breath later, the fire took hold.

The gasoline helped. Flames surged upward, greedy and unrelenting, wrapping around the logs, the cloth, the body. In seconds, the pyre blazed—hot, bright, alive in a way Henry no longer could be.

The heat washed over us in waves, chasing away the chill that had settled in the cave. Shadows danced madly on the walls. The crackle of burning wood mingled with the hiss of evaporating flesh.

Still, we didn't move.

We bore witness.

Smoke curled toward the ceiling, rising like a soul being carried into the sky. Ash floated, soft and weightless, settling on stone and skin like snow.

An hour passed, or maybe it was only minutes. Time didn't behave normally in the firelight.

Eventually, the blaze died down, reduced to glowing embers and a bitter, clinging stench.

Richard stepped forward and scattered a final handful of dirt over what remained.

And just like that—it was done.

No ceremony. No prayer. Just fire, smoke, and silence.

We packed up without a word. Sleeping bag rolled tight. Gear hoisted. Boots laced. The process was automatic, practiced. But the silence between us wasn't empty—it was loaded, thick with the weight of grief and unfinished thoughts.

The cave felt heavier on the way out, the air denser, like the stone itself remembered what had happened here.

When we stepped into the open, the sky above was a slate of bruised purples and storm-gray clouds. The wind was colder, sharper. A world waiting to move forward, uncaring about what we left behind.

That's when Richard finally spoke again.

His voice was quieter now, but every word was sharp and deliberate.

"You know what you did wrong back there?"

I nodded slightly. I'd been waiting for this.

"I underestimated him," I admitted, keeping my eyes forward.

Richard shook his head. "That was part of it. But not the worst part."

He glanced at me, his expression carved from granite.

"You forgot the most basic thing. No one fights fair when their life's on the line. Doesn't matter who they are. Even the good ones fight dirty when death's close. The corrupted? They'll do worse than that. They'll burn the whole world to stay alive."

I didn't respond. What could I say?

He kept walking, his boots crunching against the gravel path.

"A good hunter knows that. Prepares for it. Sees the next move before it comes. Plans for what's hiding behind the obvious. The thing you don't see coming until it's already got you by your throat."

I thought of Henry. Of the fight. Of the moment I'd believed it was over—only to find it wasn't.

Richard had seen it coming.

How easily Richard had brought Henry to his knees with just a vial of wolfsbane.

"You're strong, Lucas," he said after a while. "Stronger than I ever was. Stronger than most. But strength means nothing if you go charging into the dark without thinking. Power can't replace wisdom."

"I know," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Richard stopped, turning to face me.

"No," he said, holding my gaze. "You don't. Not yet. But you will."

He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and kept walking, each step pulling us farther from the cave, from the fire, from what we'd left behind.

Only smoke followed.

But deep inside me, something had shifted.

I could feel it—low and humming, like coals still hot beneath the ash. A crackling current beneath my skin, alive and waiting.

This wasn't the end.

This was just the spark.

The beginning of something more.