Chapter 18: Fire Without Ashes

Aryn's POV

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We crossed the threshold of the Living Gate by dawn.

There was no sound to mark our passing—no whisper of farewell from the arch of bone and vine, no shimmer of magic left behind. One moment, it stood—a sentinel twisted with runes and old blood—and the next, it was gone. Devoured by mist. Forgotten by the waking world.

All that remained was frost.

And silence.

Every step forward felt like it cost more than the last. The air was thinner here—less like breath, more like memory. Cold and elusive. It coiled in my lungs like smoke, heavy with the scent of old ash and pine resin. Something ancient lingered in it… not evil, but watching. Waiting.

Beside me, Garrick walked with quiet resolve. His shoulders were squared, his eyes sharp beneath his hood, but his fingers hovered near the hilt of his blade with a tension that hadn't been there before.

Even the trees seemed wary.

Their branches bent not toward the path—but away from it.

"The Trial changed you," Garrick murmured finally, his voice nearly lost in the wind. He didn't look back.

I touched the place beneath my collar, where the mark still burned like embers beneath the skin. It had faded from flame to warmth, but its presence had only deepened—woven into my bones, into the beat of my heart.

"I changed with it," I replied.

He nodded once. A flicker of understanding in his eyes. No more questions.

We moved deeper into the woods, where frost painted the bark like lace and the snow swallowed our tracks behind us.

And then—

We found her.

---

She couldn't have been more than ten.

Curled beneath a blackened tree, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, her skin pale beneath a layer of grime. Wide, feral eyes peered out from tangled hair. Her breath came in quick, uneven puffs, misting the air like a dying flame. The remains of a broken iron trap lay nearby—its jagged teeth bloodied and half-buried in the snow.

She had escaped something.

But not without cost.

Her ankle was grotesquely swollen, the flesh a mottled mix of purple and sickly gray. Frostbite had already begun to claim her toes. Every inch of her shook, but her stare remained fixed—sharp as a blade.

"I won't go back!" she screamed. Her voice cracked like snapped twigs. "You can't make me!"

I froze. Garrick stepped in front of me, palm raised but weapon still sheathed.

"We're not here to hurt you," he said gently, his tone the calm of a seasoned soldier speaking to a wounded animal.

The girl didn't move. Her shoulders tensed, ready to bolt. Then—

Her eyes locked onto mine.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then—

"You're marked," she whispered. The words fell from her lips like a prayer and a curse.

I crouched slowly, keeping my hands where she could see them, palms bare and open. "What's your name?" I asked.

A long silence.

Then, almost inaudibly: "Nessa."

She swallowed hard.

"They were hunting me," she said. "They said I had poison in me. That I was cursed."

A sharp breath caught in my throat.

Garrick's jaw clenched. "Who was hunting you?"

"I don't know," Nessa whispered. "But they wore bones. And their fire… their fire didn't burn." Her voice trembled. "It bit. It crawled under your skin. Like it was alive."

The Hollow Court.

Again.

The thought sent a cold shiver through me, but I didn't hesitate. I took a slow step forward.

"Let me help," I said, extending my hand.

She flinched backward, eyes wild. But then—

The mark on my shoulder pulsed. A soft warmth unfurled from it like a heartbeat.

And Nessa stilled.

She saw it—not with her eyes, but with something deeper. The same way I had felt the mark in the Trial. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes widened in wonder, not fear.

Then—

The flame returned.

Not the uncontrolled inferno I had once wielded. Not the screaming blaze that devoured all it touched. This was different. The fire rose from my skin like silk, like gold spun from light. It curled around my fingers, soft as a whisper.

She didn't run.

And as I laid my hands over her injured ankle—

The fire flowed.

Not burning.

Not searing.

Soothing.

The swelling ebbed before my eyes. The frostbitten skin regained its color, from bruised blue to delicate pink. Nessa watched, trembling not from pain but from awe.

"It didn't hurt," she said.

I pulled back, my hands still glowing faintly.

Garrick exhaled slowly. "It healed her."

I stared at my fingers. Still warm. Still whole.

"That's not possible," I whispered. "I've only ever burned things. I destroy. That's what fire does."

"Not this time," he said.

And in his voice, there was a quiet reverence.

---

We moved to shelter near a grove of frostwood trees, whose branches sparkled like glass in the pale afternoon light. The wind had stilled. Nessa clung to my cloak now, her tiny fingers clutching fabric with the desperate strength of someone who'd never known safety.

She didn't speak much after that. She didn't have to.

She stayed close.

We built a fire together, Garrick and I. But it was my flame that sparked first—clean and controlled, dancing on the edge of my palm before catching the wood. No kindling. No flint. Just a thought.

The light it cast was gold, not red. It flickered softly across our faces, casting long shadows that didn't feel like threats.

And for the first time…

I wasn't afraid of it.

Nessa fell asleep curled against me, her breath even, her pain forgotten for now.

I had no answers to give her. No promises to make.

But I gave her warmth.

And for now—

That was enough.

---

That night, I dreamed again.

The forest around me shimmered, not with snow but with embers. The sky was velvet black. And in the distance, through fire and mist, he appeared.

The antlered figure.

The silver-eyed watcher.

He didn't speak.

He bowed.

Not to me.

But to Nessa.

She stood beside me in the dream, eyes aglow with fire and light. And behind her—

A hundred children.

Marked. Hunted.

Burning.

Waiting.

Their eyes met mine. Not pleading. Not afraid.

But ready.

---

I woke before dawn. The frost around my bedroll had melted into dew. Nessa still slept, her head against my shoulder. Garrick sat watch a few paces away, sharpening his blade with slow, methodical strokes.

Then—

A voice.

Carried on the wind.

Familiar. Cold.

"Aryn… come home."

My breath caught in my throat. The world stilled.

I turned toward the sound, heart pounding.

Garrick's head snapped up. "What is it?"

I rose slowly, scanning the horizon.

"They're not done with me yet," I said, eyes narrowing.

Because I knew that voice.

And if it had found me here—