Leaves crumbled to dust beneath Roy’s feet as he dashed through the field of ash. His hands burned like stars; his eyes ached as though he had stared at the heavens for hours. His thoughts raced with the hissing of demons; the ripping of flesh scorched his mind. The flames were unberable.

I did this. The thought repeated over and over.

Roy screamed away the thoughts, running into the hollows of burned-out oaks. He stumbled across hills and valleys littered with deer carcases. Birdsongs ended in a smoldering orange note. The clouds made way for a crescent moon that basked Roy in a desolate darkness that crept across the glen. He kept running, hardly able to catch his breath.

What am I? Roy was desperate for an answer. He didn’t know who he was anymore. The flames erupting from his body were not his.

A branch caught Roy’s satchel, wrenching it as he tumbled to the ground in agony. His ankle dug beneath a thick root, twisting under his weight as he fell. He wriggled his foot free, but a warm sensation crept from the top of his foot down to his toes. He buried his face in his hands, closing his eyes tightly. Amid his panting, he thought of Viola’s smile near the creek bed, her laughter, the brightness of her eyes cut short by sharp talons.

No more. Roy thought as he turned onto his stomach, his ankle freeing itself as he sat on his knees. He smashed a fist into the earth, a cloud of ash puffing up into his mouth.

Please. The thought felt like a prayer. To what, Roy didn’t know. He begged for the pain to stop.

Roy continued to assault the earth. He halted when the soil glowed before him. A small pool of gold arose from the ash, floating before him like a curious ball of pollen. Roy’s glassy eyes followed the speck, and soon two more rose from the ash. One appeared from the cinders of a pine tree. Soon a field of gold had formed around him.

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Roy’s bloodied face was streaked with tears, illuminated by the brilliant specks as they drew closer to him. A particularly brave ball floated over to his arm. He reeled back, falling onto his elbow as he held his arm out. It was then he noticed large blackened gashes in his forearm, seeping with disease. He felt around his body, and found two puncture marks in his shoulder. He couldn’t remember where they came from.

Viola was dead. The forest was in tatters.

Roy kept his mouth shut, fighting his voice as it cracked and clawed at his lips. His neck strained; his eyes burned. He covered his face with hands soaked in blood and mud.

Dying alone was an act of mercy for what he had done.

Roy’s arm ached, but a warmth was seeping in. The ball of light had roosted on his wound like a golden dove. The black rim of Roy’s injury slowly receded, returning to a raw pink color. The creature seeped into his wound. As the poisonous bile faded, so did the little wisp. Blood flowed, but it was cleansed. Roy sniffed as another of the wisps hovered low, settling for three gashes in the boy’s back. Another wisp seeped into his leg. Roy held his wounded left hand out, and another wisp hovered like a wingless bumblebee, taking a few clumsy attempts to land. He had never seen a creature so elegant, yet so intangible.

Voices echoed through the hellscape. Light could be seen in the distance, held in the hands of men as they swung them in different directions. Their swords cast shadows on the trees as they walked past. Their words were alien, with the only intelligible thing being Anlun’s name.

Roy crawled into blackened bushes, skittering away from the men. He looked at his hands, feeling the warmth in his palms despite the bitter cold. He groaned as the burning discomfort blossomed in his chest. Roy looked up where the forest canopy once stood. Between the charred fingers of the forest were the horns of Kriedeberg. A blanket of snow was laid over the mountain, illuminated by oceanic moonlight. The Dragonguard sat between the peaks.

If they couldn’t help him, they could at least contain him.