Grief

Rain.

It rained harder, unstopably, until the ash and grime changed to mud. The wood was no longer smouldering anymore, as the rain had gone out the blazing coal. But the world that was once consumed by fire now rested dying beneath the waters as if the heavens mourned at that which was gone.

Rion lay stagnant on top of it.

His hands were clenched, and it seemed that they still clutched something the hands of the twins, the candlestick, the last gasp of a life which he had killed. A distant heat throbbed in his palm, irresolute and vague, wavering like the final firing of an ember.

Then a hand was laid upon his shoulder. Neither warm or cold, but simply present.

The Visitor stood beside him in the rain, silent. A frozen witness to devastation.

He awoke to silence.

A low ceiling and wooden beams. On stone walls Candlelights jolted left and right. It smelled like woodsmoke and wet wool. The rain pattering monotonously at the windows.

Rion rose to his knees with a spastic gasp. His hand shot out involuntarily and his fingers opened like he was reaching out in his memory to the fire without his mind being able to keep up with him.

The Visitor took his seat beside his bed. On the small table, he served a wooden tray which consisted of a bowl of soup, black bread, a canteen of water. His coat was wet with rain, but his gloves were breathing a thin mist, as though he had a plentitude of heat to issue, against the cold.

"You lived," the Visitor said.

Rion's face twisted. His lips trembled. And then he broke.

"You knew," he rasped, his voice burned by smoke and screams. "You knew what was going to happen."

"I knew possibilities. Not certainties."

"You left me there!" Rion shoved the tray. Soup sloshed over the edge, the bowl threatening to tip. "You stood by and watched while, while they—"

"I watched," the Visitor interrupted, "as you made a choice."

"I killed them." Rion's voice cracked. His eyes brimmed red.

"No," said the Visitor, quietly. "You saved four. The others were already dead."

"Why couldn't I save them all?"

There was a pause between them. The candle flame danced erratically casting shadows across The Visitor's face.

"Because you had to look," he said at last. "Because you had to fail. There is no lesson in mercy. Not for our kind."

Rion's anger shattered. Tears fell through the cracks.

"They were my family," he whispered. "I was going to save them."

"I believe you," the Visitor said.

That made it worse.

He didn't remember sleeping again. Time became heavy, shapeless. When he next moved, the food was gone, and the tray taken. He stood in the dim room, still trembling.

"Thank you," he said at last, voice brittle. "I have to at least give them a funeral."

The Visitor stood. "No."

Rion tensed. "What?"

"You can't. No one can know what happened there." His voice was low. Measured. "Even the memory of infection is contagious. For unawakened minds, knowledge alone invites fear and madness. Some go mad from a whisper. Others tear at their own flesh trying to 'get it out.'"

Rion's eyes widened. "So you're saying—"

"I erased them," the Visitor said. "Every trace. Names, faces, records. Everything that could make someone remember that place."

"Silence buried them."

"I saved the world from what killed them."

Rion clenched his fists. "And what if I don't want them to be forgotten?"

The Visitor regarded him a long while.

"Then remember them yourself," he said. "But do not make the world remember what it cannot bear."

The rain had thinned by the time they returned.

There was no road, only burned earth and mud. The orphanage was now a huge crater cut into the hillside, as though a deity had ripped it out of the world. There were still steam clouds rising up out of the depths, and certain fires still smoldered under the surface.

Rion stood at the edge of the void, gazing into it. No bones. No ruins. Nothing left of the chapel. The silence inside him mirrored the hole in the earth.

"I don't know what to do now," he said softly.

"Then follow me," the Visitor replied. "There's more to see."

Rion turned, startled. "What?"

"There's a world beyond that pit, Rion. And other beasts." The Visitor's eyes gleamed. "You can stay here and grieve. Or you can learn what you are and how to make sure this never happens again."

He walked ahead. For a moment, Rion remained behind, boots sunk in wet soil.

Then he followed.

The rain faded to mist. They moved in silence, the Visitor's coat rippling like a shadow with its own mind. Mud sucked at their boots. The air was cold and clean.

The Visitor stopped and looked back. His expression held no warmth, no sympathy, but something like respect.

"My name is Caspian Everheart," he said. "A professor at the Academy of Armathane."

Rion blinked. "An academy?"

"For people like you."

"Like me?"

"You felt it," Caspian said. "The fire in your blood. The way it listened to you, before you even knew how to speak to it."

Rion's palm burned faintly, like a quiet heartbeat.

"What am I?"

Caspian considered. Then spoke, "You are an Arcana Mage. The most special and unique magic users ever known."

Rion furrowed his brow. "What does that mean?"

"It means your fire isn't just normal. It's a projection of self. Most mages pull from ley lines, spirits, elements. But the Arcana? Your magic comes from within. Its the very core of what makes you."

"And that's... special?"

Caspian's lips curled, not quite into a smile. "Special or cursed. Depends who you ask."

He turned, walking again. Rion followed, boots splashing through shallow puddles.

"The Arcana," Caspian said, "are the only mages the Draughnir truly hate. Because you're the only ones who can't be corrupted."

"Draughnir." The name tasted bitter. "The things from the orphanage?"

"The ones you saw were grubs. The real Draughnir are worse."

Rion's stomach twisted. "What are they?"

"Things from the end of things. Amalgams of every corruption. They wear black fluid that transforms whatever it touches. It spreads by contact, by fog sometimes by memory."

Rion remembered the orphanage. The fog creeping in like breath. Living. Watching.

"It drives people mad," Caspian continued. "Even survivors claw out their own eyes before they die."

His gloved fist tightened.

"And each Draughnir is immune to something. One cannot be harmed by any man who's known love. Another cannot be killed by flame unless cast by a child. One in the north cannot be slain by a blade wielded by human hand."

Rion stared at him. "That's... impossible."

"No," Caspian said. "It's Draughnir."

A cold tremor crawled up Rion's spine. "So how do you kill them?"

"First you identify their invulnelerability and after that you destroy them completely. All at once. Leave a single cell, and they return. Cnsuming stone, metal, even air to rebuild themselves."

"But I hurt them," Rion said. "My fire—"

"Burned them away," Caspian confirmed. "Your kind doesn't just fight corruption. You cleanse it."

The weight of that truth settled like ash.

He thought of his hands, blackened by flame only for the flesh to return, whole and unmarred. The fire had eaten everything unclean. Everything else had stayed.

He opened his mouth, but said nothing.

The forest loomed ahead. Dense and dark. Behind them, only the void.

He curled his fingers, feeling the ember's glow in his palm.

"This academy," he said. "Will they teach me to control it?"

"If you survive the training," Caspian replied.

"I've already survived worse."

For a flicker of a moment, something like approval crossed Caspian's face. Then he turned.

"Come on, Mage. The world's not waiting for your grief."

He vanished into the trees. Rion hesitated only a breath, then followed.