Chapter 2.3 - The Fire: Rise

- Emmet and The Witch -

Looking into the embers of the fire inside the well-lit hut, Emmet found himself wondering at how the witch could live so comfortably here. Her place was far nicer than anything he, Marsh, or his sister could ever hope to have inside the city. He could not help himself from feeling a sense of wonder, here far removed from civilization, she thrived in solitude. He thought to himself that if the witch’s comfort came at the cost of companionship, did her seclusion then shield her from pain, or did it only amplify it?

He watched as she worked, the air was thick with the earthy scent of herbs, the fire crackling softly as it threw shadows across the walls. It felt like a cocoon, warm and safe—yet suffocating in its silence. standing with her back to him, she tore petals from some dried herbs and placed them into an empty bowl. She was not much older than Emmet himself, maybe even a bit younger, with messy hazel hair reaching past her shoulders, and her pale white skin almost reflected the light from the fire. His breath grew heavier as his gaze shifted back to the firepit, where the flames licked the edge of, what to Emmet seemed like, a large knife, its steel glowing red-hot.

“You know, this might already be too late,” the witch said, her voice carrying a note of concern. She turned and knelt in front of him, her face serious.

“What do you mean?” Emmet asked, with unease creeping into his voice.

“You should’ve come here earlier. At this point, your fever will only get worse before it gets better. I can keep treating you, but in the end, it’s your will to survive that will make the difference.” She looked him straight in the eye, delivering the grim news with little sympathy.

Emmet stared back, slightly mortified by her words, not knowing how to reply to the news. His gaze lingered, finding solace in her eyes. He’d never seen anyone with two different-colored eyes before—one beeing bluish gray, the other light brown. His intense gaze clearly struck a nerve, and she shifted uncomfortably, her composure slipping.

“Stop staring at me like I’m a freak!” she snapped, her tone flustered.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—your eyes, they’re just… I’ve never seen anything like them. I found them fascinating,” Emmet quickly explained, his words tumbling over one another.

“You find them fascinating?” she asked, her confusion clear. She gripped the knife, holding it a little tighter than she might have realized, making Emmet feel a bit uneasy.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare like that,” Emmet apologized, unsure whether he’d really done anything wrong or not.

She gave a brief nod before turning her attention to the knife, which had been warming by the fire. It wasn’t glowing hot anymore, just warm enough to be sterilized.

The witch sighed, clearly trying to brush it off. “I should apologize in advance as well. This is going to hurt.” She positioned the bowl of petals under his wound, holding the knife ready.

“Don't apologize” Emmet said “Pain like that doesn’t scare me anymore,” He continued trying to sound tough, though he still flinched as the warm blade touched his skin.

She offered a faint, fleeting smile before pressing the knife gently to his wound, slicing into the infected flesh. A thick, yellowish pus oozed out, and Emmet gritted his teeth as the pain shot through him, a searing heat that radiated from the wound and set his nerves ablaze.

“That was the easy part,” she muttered, more to herself than him. Giving Emmet a brief moment to relax “Now comes the real pain.”

She didn’t give him time to react. Her hands pushed down hard on the wound, forcing the infection out into the bowl below. The pressure sent waves of agony coursing through him, far sharper than any normal cut, as if every nerve was set on fire. The stench was overwhelming, thick and sour, nothing like the sharp iron scent of blood he was expecting. He almost gagged but fought it back, trying to keep still. Everything inside him screamed to pull away, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He had to trust her.

His head started spinning, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. His vision blurred at the edges, but he dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself to stay conscious. The pain was unbearable, every push of her hands sending shocks through his body.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the pus was gone, replaced by the deep red of blood. She grabbed a cloth and wrapped it tight around the wound, her movements quick and practiced. The pressure was a relief, but he was too exhausted to care.

“Here, drink this,” she said, handing him a steaming cup of herbal tea. The warm liquid slid down his throat, its earthy taste both soothing and strangely comforting amidst the pain. She looked at him, her voice steady. “We’ll have to do this again tomorrow.”

Emmet couldn’t even nod. His body was too drained, the pain too much. He simply watched her work, allowing her to clean the wound in silence, each movement deliberate and practiced. Before he could say anything, sleep pulled him under, dragging him into the darkness. As time passed, the witch's attention shifted to the other tasks that needed to be done around her hut.

- Fennel -

Fennel had always preferred solitude, which was why her small hut, nestled far from the bustling village, suited her perfectly. The cold, harsh environment made it difficult to grow herbs outside, but she had adapted creating a small dirt-herbal bed inside, cultivating not as much as she’d like to, but enough for her and the occasional visitor to survive. The frozen soil denied her the luxury of growing her own food, but years of mastering traps had allowed her to catch small game in the forest. Unlike the hunters of her old village, who ventured out with nothing but bows and bravado, Fennel’s method had been quiet and efficient, giving her more time for other pursuits—like taking care of Emmet, who was currently resting by her fire.

Fennel finished skinning a hare, expertly removing the pelt in one smooth motion. Hanging it next to the other furs, she prepared the animal for cooking. Every so often, her eyes drifted toward Emmet, lying peacefully beside the fire. He didn’t seem like the type to endure such a difficult journey at this hour, especially not to her remote cabin. She caught herself glancing at him again and frowned, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. Why am I so distracted?

Determined to focus, she grabbed a thick book from the stool beside her. The Artisan was a collection of all the previous owners' knowledge, including a detailed study on infections by her deceased master, whose passing had started her desire for solitude.

She flipped to the relevant section to review her treatment. Her thoughts wandered, though, recalling the moment when Emmet had mentioned her eyes. It wasn’t the first time someone had pointed them out, but the way Emmet had said it stayed with her longer than she expected. She pondered over his words, blushing and scolding herself silently, knowing that she should not get distracted.

Even though she knew the process by heart, Fennel always questioned her own abilities. She had cleaned Emmet’s wound thoroughly, used the right ratio of herbs and alcohol, and applied the concoction correctly. Everything had been done as it should be. Satisfied, she turned the pages to her own entry of the Artisan, detailing her own theory on Geo-Oriented Life Engineered Manifestation,” or GOLEM for short. The idea was ambitious: using electricity and mineral earth to create an artificial lifeform. The only problem was she didn’t have enough gritt to generate the electrical charge needed to test her theory. For now, it remained an untested dream, a mere entry in the Artisan.

She sighed deeply, once again catching herself gazing at Emmet’s resting face. Why can’t I stop looking at him? Fennel cursed herself silently for her wandering thoughts. “For all that is holy, stop!” she whispered under her breath as she checked on the meat roasting over the fire. In a world where every distraction could lead to danger, she knew she had to stay vigilant and focused, and not chase some fleeting fantasy that could cost her dearly.

-Marsh and the Thugs-

Meanwhile Marsh was back in town, feeling the full weight of chasing fantasies. He knew the choices he made could lead to his demise, but still, he stood his ground. If he were honest with himself, it didn’t make sense to stay. His whole life, people had told him how he always made things worse, and maybe there was truth to that—but it was the same truth that kept him standing where no one else would.

If he hadn’t shown up, everything might not have escalated this far. Maybe the thugs would have stopped once they got what they wanted. But now, if he backed down, the girl's fate would certainly mean death. Marsh tightened his grip on his sword, carefully observing his opponents. He had to push through them for the plan to work.

There really is no way back.

One thug, eager to impress, attacked first. Screaming as he charged, his green blade raised high, clearly untrained but bold. His charge spurred the others, and the gang stormed toward Marsh. Marsh sidestepped, using the fragile wooden wall as a shield.

The mob reached him, swinging with all their might. The front thug’s sword sliced through the air, getting stuck in the wall above Marsh as he ducked. Marsh spun down the alley, past a second attacker, throwing his weight against the opposite wall. The bald leader stayed back, watching behind his human shield. Marsh lunged forward, trying to break through the masses, but there were too many.

An enormous unarmed thug grabbed Marsh by the shoulder, yanking him back into the fray. Another blade thrusted towards him. Marsh barely managed to parry the sword away from his center, instead piercing through his shoulder, blood soaking the green steel. The pain shot through him, but he couldn't stop now, he had to get free. With a quick motion, he swung his sword, hitting the thug's wrist, cutting straight through, severing the hand that held him. the dismembered fingers still tightly held onto his shoulder, as blood sprayed from the thugs wrist. But there was no break, the gang had blocked his way forward, and the next attack fell.

A hard punch smashed into Marsh’s face, his skin splitting, blood flowing freely from his shoulder, his eye throbbing from the blow. Through the haze of pain, he felt everything—his tight grip on the sword, the black snow beneath his feet, the adrenaline keeping him standing.

He quickly tilted his head, dodging the next punch, sending the thug toward him. Marsh slammed his forehead into the thug’s nose, sending him flying back, blood arching through the air.

Time slowed. Marsh felt the cursed mark slither up his arm, almost like it was feeding on his pain–It wanted more.

The thug hit the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose. Marsh pushed forward, as a sharp pain stopped him—another sword pierced his back, just missing his spine. Blood gushed from the wound, and his vision blurred.

The dire situation made everything seem clearer. He yanked the sword from his back and sprinted toward the bald leader, who was focused on the girls.

He is all that matters.

The cursed mark crawled up Marsh’s throat, making it hard to breathe. He roared, lunging at the bald man, who stumbled back in surprise, hitting the wall. Marsh didn’t relent, slashing with savage fury. The man lost his balance trying to parry—Marsh seized the moment. As the gang approached from behind, Marsh disarmed the leader, spun him around, and cut the vines holding the girls. He locked the thug in an iron grip, using him as a shield.

“THIS ENDS NOW!” Marsh bellowed, his sword pressing against the leader’s neck. The man’s throat felt fragile in his grip, and was one wrong move away from death. A thick white cloud of steam rose from their bodies, the heat of Marsh’s rage meeting the cold air. For a moment, Marsh looked like a Sentinel, his murderous intent freezing the gang in place.

“Get out of here!” Marsh shouted to the girls. They hesitated, but quickly ran past him, knowing that no other opportunity would arise, turning the corner they disappeared into the night. Marsh had reached his goal, but now he was trapped.

A few thugs stepped forward.

“Stay back!” Marsh warned, drawing blood as his sword pressed against the leader’s neck.

“Do as he says!” the man barked, fear tightening his voice. The gang paused, but their eyes were calculating.

Before Marsh could react, a sharp pain shot through his thigh. His vision spun, limbs going numb as he collapsed in the ash-covered alley. The bald leader stood over him, with a small thorn in his hand.

Is this… the end? Marsh’s final thought wasn’t regret, but despair. He hadn’t done enough.

“You're mine now, you wretched vermin lover,” the bald man sneered, contempt spilling out of his voice, while rubbing his neck. “This must be how they felt,” he muttered, out of breath, before spitting onto the snowy ground where the girls had been moments earlier

- Rached -

In Veinfall, survival came down to the choices: work in the mine, or take your chances on the street. Working in the mines was grueling, breaking down even the toughest of bodies. It was even said that for every hour down there, you could subtract a week from your life, as one's body simply couldn't keep up with the relentless physical labor. And if your body didn’t give out, the mine likely would—burying countless souls beneath tons of falling rock. Rached had seen the strain firsthand, not only the physical, but the mental as well.

As a child, he had watched his father slave away, barely able to feed the family. His mother sold more than the clothes off her back to anyone who had a few seeds to burn. Looking back, Rached realized that might have been what hurt his father the most—knowing his wife had to satisfy others because of his own failures. It could have contributed to what happened next. Rached had as always, quietly been eating moldy bread while his older sisters watched their father survive on nothing but sleep, as their mother earned what little she could behind a curtain. His first memory of his father was of a strong man who took care of his family. The last memory was of him—shrunken, malnourished, and only a shadow of the man he once had been.

Rached still wondered what had driven his father to do what he did that day, but to leave him alive. His father had picked him up from a house where he was supposed to start work, to help his family. When they got home, a fight broke out. Rached remembered going inside after the screams had ended. His mother and sister lay there like discarded rags, their eyes wide open, staring through him—empty, lifeless. His father’s hands were wrapped tightly around his other sister's neck. At the end of her life, she had only been able to thrash her limbs like a fish out of water. Rached, still a small child, had tried to help, but he was no match for his father’s uncontrolled strength. His father held firm until she, too, went limp. After that, Rached never saw him again. His father had left him with just enough seeds for a meal. Rached was only six years old.

Now, he understood that this was just how things worked on the streets. You killed, you stabbed, and you survived. Relying on charity in a place where no one had any, taught him a valuable lesson: in the end, you could only trust yourself. You might lose your soul in the process, but at least you would survive. Rached was certain, he had kept his sanity intact—at least, compared to those who ended up in the mines or at the mercy of an uncaring lord. If he was going to die, he'd rather it be quick—quicker than rotting away in the mines. While waiting for that inevitable end, he lived as best he could. It wasn’t an easy path; life on the streets demanded loyalty to your brothers and sisters. Without loyalty, you didn’t have a crew, and without a crew, you were either a victim or dead.

Rached looked through the kids pouch, finding a few seeds. At least he got compensated from this insolent kid who had freed his intel, and injured too many of his men in the process. If the stubborn freak had just freed the girls, Rached would have given him a quick death. But now, the kid had made a mockery of everyone, and he needed to become an example for anyone else who might try the same. Rached hesitated to give the order, rather wanting to show mercy with a clean kill, but eventually forced himself to do what had to be done.

"Dredger, take the kid. We're taking him to the square!" Rached barked, snapping one of his brothers into action. Dredger, a large man, stood confused for a moment, as blood was still dripping from his stump where his hand had once been, he turned his gaze to the boy. Dredger hesitated before awkwardly attempting to lift the boy with his one good hand.

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“Were you born like this, Dredger, or did Sjael personally screw you over? Just stop it already. If you can't do it, say so!” Rached snapped, leaving the half-goliath dumbfounded. Two other brothers stepped in to help, laying their new trophy across Dredger’s broad shoulders. The boys weight slowed down the bleeding, without bringing it to a halt, something Rached noticed.

“For the love of all that’s holy, Dredger, quit bleeding all over the place!” Rached scolded. The half-giant grinned mischievously and, with a careless swing of his stump, sent a small splatter of blood onto Rached's shoes. The amusement in Dredger’s eyes was clear as he let out a low chuckle, easing the tension among the rest of the gang.

Rached put on a bit of a show, yelling, “Gods-fucking-shit! These shoes were new, you illiterate troll!” The rest of the gang burst into laughter, the tension of the fight melting away. Even in the face of defeat, they found victory in each other's rough humor.

"Yeah, maybe you can get a new job as a fountain at the hideout!" another brother joked, the gang roared with laughter. Rached glanced at his comrades. Life on the streets was brutal, but moments of joy—no matter how small—were precious. Understanding that, Rached had risen quickly through the ranks to become one of The Truculent’s three lieutenants. He knew how to balance loyalty and humor, a skill that had clearly earned him respect. Even Dredger, the butt of the joke, laughed along with the rest.

The banter continued for a while as they carried Marsh out the cold alleyway, into the greenlit street, yet they did not get far, before more trouble seemed to be heading their way. A familiar voice sounded further up the alley.

“It’s down there! That’s where they caught us!” Rached heard one of the two girls' voices, giving directions towards their location. Years of surviving on the streets had taught Rached one thing: think fast or you die. This wasn't the first time he'd had to improvise. Every decision was a gamble, but one wrong move could mean a quick end.

"We're not ready for another fight!" someone hissed.

Rached glanced back. The girls’ voices echoed down the alley, followed by the clatter of approaching footsteps.

“Shut it,” Rached muttered, crouching low while he frantically looked around. “We live or die based on who strikes first.”

His eyes landed on the flat roofed buildings covering the arena, Maybe they could use that.

- Egi'l and Rached -

M’riah, Egi’l, and Shyann had barely left The Totem when they found a distressed Dari'n and Rhien. Fortunately, Shyann had recognized Marsh's description; otherwise, they might not have come to investigate. The green-lit, snow-covered roads always gave M’riah the chills, as they often concealed mutilated bodies in the drifts. Her crow swooped down to rest on her shoulder, offering some comfort but not enough to quell her unease. She had learned to expect the worst, especially when it came to the Truculents, who still controlled the Loomlighters. Egi’l noticed M’riah’s hesitation and stepped ahead, his Great Dane trotting faithfully beside him. He led the group of seven, fully aware that he had the most to lose, but determined to set an example.

Following Rhien’s directions, they soon found themselves in more trouble than they had anticipated.

“Oh, it’s just you!” Rached blurted with relief before continuing, “I thought it might be real trouble.” He looked to his brothers, who stood solidly behind him, forming an intimidating wall. In contrast, Egi’l's group looked far less imposing—Shyann was cowering behind M’riah, while Dari'n and Rhien peered nervously from behind Shyann.

“Something’s wrong,” Dari’n whispered.

“Yeah, there were more of them when we were here last,” Rhien added, but her warning came too late. Seven green-lit shadows leapt from the sheds behind them, blocking the way out and encircling them like cattle bound for slaughter.

“I see you’re still up to your cheap tricks, Cain. I’ll admit, I preferred when you were on my side,” Egi’l said, acknowledging Racheds’s tactical advantage. M’riah, however, didn’t take his presence so lightly.

"You filthy snitch! Call off your goons, or I'll break them in half!” she shouted, her anger only fueling Rached’s sadistic pleasure. Her crow took flight, its dark wings slicing through the air like the rising tension, leaving a few feathers swirling in its wake.

“You really think you’re in any position to make demands? Don’t make me laugh, Iah,” Cain replied, a sly smile curling his lips.

“I know I am. I know you, Cain. Behind that pompous facade, the suffering little boy we fostered when he was left to die is still hiding in there,” M’riah said, her words landing exactly where she intended. Rached's expression darkened, clearly unsettled.

“Don’t speak to me like we’re familiar, Iah. That boy died with your so-called suffering,” Cain spat back with a scowl, tightly clenching his fist.

“Don’t fool yourself, boy. You never understood the value of your suffering—it’s what’s kept you alive all these years!” Egi’l interjected, drawing an eye roll from Cain.

"Tch, no. What kept me alive was realizing that suffering is a burden—one that will consume and destroy you if you let it," Cain retorted sharply. He paused, locking eyes with Egi’l before continuing, "You cling to it like it’s some badge of honor, but it’s nothing more than a chain. I cut mine off long ago."

Egi’l didn’t flinch. Instead, he rested a hand on the back of his great Dane, the massive dog standing ready at his side, muscles tense and ears perked. “Without that burden, we tend to forget others—a truth you'd recognize if you hadn't buried it so deep, Cain,” he said, his tone steady. “Suffering might weigh us down, but it’s what keeps us connected. You may have people at your back, but no one is at your side!”

The great Dane let out a low growl, sensing the tension rise as the fight drew closer. Egi’l kept his eyes locked on Cain, his trust in the dog absolute. They had fought side by side more times than he could count, and the unspoken bond between them was more powerful than any sword. In moments like this, it was hard not to see the boy he and his wife had once taken care of, despite the monster he had become.

Cain’s eyes narrowed, the words hitting closer than he cared to admit. His lips curled into a sneer, the silence grew heavy as the Truculents’ eyes turned toward Cain. Egi’l's words pierced his heart like a sharp knife, leaving a heavy weight inside him. For a moment, something shifted in Cain’s gaze, but the vulnerability vanished as quickly as it appeared. His sneer returned, colder than before. “Enough talk. You lot can join this kid as ornaments in the town square.” With a single hand signal, Cain’s gang closed in, the dark snow crunched underfoot, and the green-lit shadows loomed taller, their forms distorted by the icy mist swirling around them. M'riah’s crow swooped overhead, cawing loudly as if sensing the impending violence. Feathers drifted down like grim omens, disappearing into the gray drifts.

Egi’l stood his ground, gripping the great Dane’s harness. The dog let out a low growl, its eyes locked on the approaching figures. Egi’l had no blade, only his bare hands. He glanced at M’riah, whose fury barely masked her concern. Behind them, Shyann, Dari’n, and Rhien huddled close, fear in their wide eyes.

“Stay sharp, M’riah,” Egi’l murmured, his voice steady but tense. “This isn’t just a brawl—it’s an ambush.”

M’riah nodded, adjusting her stance. “I’m ready. But if Cain wants a fight, I won’t hold back.”

Egi’l didn’t reply, his eyes on Cain. They were outnumbered, and it showed in the tightening circle around them.

Cain smirked, his voice dripping with disdain. “Still clinging to your high ideals, Egi’l? This world doesn’t reward the righteous.”

“I know,” Egi’l said, his voice calm despite the danger. “But I also know nothing’s more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.”

Cain’s smile faltered briefly, but he shook it off. With a signal, his gang lunged forward.

Chaos erupted. Egi’l’s great Dane lunged first, knocking one attacker off balance. Egi’l’s hands flexed as he grew claws long and rigid. He slashed at the nearest thug, drawing blood, but more kept coming. M’riah fought with fierce precision, her strikes fast and brutal, but even she was struggling to keep up with the onslaught.

“We’re not going to hold them,” M’riah spat, her voice strained.

Egi’l’s claws tore through another attacker, but he was already tiring. The gang was relentless. A sharp blow caught him in the ribs, sending him staggering back. His breath came in ragged gasps, and blood trickled down his side.

M’riah, fending off three at once, was pushed back, bruises forming beneath her torn clothing. A gang member grabbed her wrist, twisting it violently, and she let out a cry of pain. Egi’l tried to reach her, but more bodies crowded him, their weapons slicing through the air. His claws met flesh again, but it wasn’t enough.

“We’re losing ground!” M’riah shouted, sweat mixing with the blood on her brow.

A brutal kick to Egi’l’s stomach sent him to his knees. His vision blurred as he tried to stand, but the strength in his legs faltered. Before he could fall completely, the great Dane was at his side, nudging its massive body under his arm, helping him rise. The dog growled fiercely, baring its teeth at the attackers, but even it was struggling to fend off the relentless tide.

Egi’l gripped the Dane’s fur tightly, leaning on the dog for support. His legs shook, and his chest heaved, but he forced himself upright, refusing to stay down. “Good boy,” he rasped, patting the dog's side, though the situation was growing desperate.

M’riah, sweat pouring down her face, swung her fists in frantic defiance. A punch landed hard on her jaw, sending her stumbling back. She spit blood, her vision swimming. “Egi’l…we can’t…they’re too many…”

A sudden shrill whistle pierced the air, and Egi’l’s heart sank. More figures emerged from the shadows, doubling the number of attackers. Cain had planned this perfectly.

M’riah cursed under her breath, her voice weak. “This…was a setup…”

“Egi’l!” she called out, her voice barely cutting through the chaos. “We need to retreat, now!”

Egi’l’s head pounded, his chest heaving with labored breaths. The great Dane nudged him again, steadying him as he swayed. His claws were slick with blood, but his strength was fading fast. He knew they couldn’t win this.

Cain stepped forward, his sneer widening. “It’s over, Egi’l. Surrender now, and I might show mercy.”

But surrender was never an option. With a last burst of strength, Egi’l slashed wildly at the nearest gang member, knocking him back. “M’riah,” he called, voice strained, “take the others and run. I’ll hold them.”

M’riah, blood trickling from her lip, hesitated. “Egi’l, no…”

“Go!” Egi’l’s voice cracked, but his determination was clear.

Reluctantly, M’riah grabbed Shyann and the others, pulling them back. They bolted toward a narrow alley, hoping for an escape.

Egi’l stood alone now, panting heavily as the remaining gang members advanced. The great Dane was still at his side, barking ferociously as it lunged at any attacker who dared get too close. Egi’l’s legs trembled, his claws barely able to stay raised, but the dog’s presence gave him the strength to remain on his feet.

Just as M’riah and the others neared the alley’s end, they skidded to a stop.

More figures appeared from the darkness—reinforcements that had cut off their only route of escape.

Cain's laughter echoed behind them. "I told you, Egi’l. There’s no way out."

Egi’l’s heart dropped. They were surrounded, beaten, and bloodied. M’riah staggered, clutching her bruised ribs, her breath ragged. Shyann held onto Dari’n and Rhien, her eyes filled with helpless fear.

“We’re trapped,” M’riah whispered, her voice barely audible.

Egi’l, leaning heavily on the great Dane, could barely stand. His vision blurred, and his body ached with the weight of his wounds. But even as the world around him dimmed, he refused to collapse. He met Cain’s gaze, defiance still burning in his eyes.

Cain’s smile was cold and cruel as he stepped closer. “Now, let’s see how strong your ideals really are.”

- Marsh -

The war cries from the battle unfolding behind Marsh felt distant, like a hazy echo in the back of his mind—unreal to him, but all too real for Egi’l and M’riah, who fought desperately to keep the thugs away from Rhien, Dari'n, and Shyann. Shyann crouched over the other two, shielding them with her back, unsure of how else to help. A thug lunged toward them, only to be intercepted by Egi’l’s great Dane, whose growl rattled through the air, but it could not be everywhere. As another thug edged closer. The fight would have been far easier if Egi’l and M’riah hadn’t been forced to make so many extra movements to protect the vulnerable trio from the advancing gang.

Rhien huddled beneath Shyann, making small, frantic gestures as if trying to push the attackers away from Egi’l. Remarkably, her faint mental pushes created brief openings, which Egi’l used to his advantage. As Dari’ns breath revealed his desperate prayer to Null for salvation.

Rached’s smirk wavered as he watched from a safe distance, with crossed arms, hys eyes calculating. He was no fighter—his strength purely rested in his ability to command. Each time Egi’l or M’riah stumbled, his eyes sharpened, as if mentally marking their weaknesses. Beside him, Dredger the gentle half-giant shifted uncomfortably, his one massive hand tightly holding onto Marsh, curling and uncurling constantly shifting in its tightness. Though his expression remained stoic, something about the way his gaze lingered on the trio coiled up in the ashen snow felt uneasy. Rached noticed, shooting him a sharp glance.

“Don’t lose focus,” he said curtly, his tone lacking its usual sharpness. Dredger gave a slow nod, his shoulders hunching slightly.

Marsh lay slung over Dredger's massive shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his body limp. Slowly, though, life began to return to his limbs. He could hear the fight now. And more than that—he could feel it. Every strike Egi’l took, every blow M’riah received, resonated through his body, as though the battle was inside him too.

The Sjaelmark reacted to the rising desperation. At first, it only stung his hand, but soon it turned into a burning sensation crawling beneath his skin. The reddish-brown mark began to spread across his fingers, followed by an insatiable pain that jolted Marsh fully back to consciousness. He screamed, clutching his hand as the sensation became unbearable. His body convulsed, rolling off Dredger’s shoulder and crashing into the dark, green-lit snow below.

Dredger, confused, hastily tried to grab him again, hoping that Rached would not notice. But the moment his fingers made contact, Marsh’s entire arm erupted in searing black flames, edged with a deep, unnatural red. The heat forced Dredger to stagger back, shielding Rached with his good hand. The mark continued to spread, snaking up Marsh’s arm, past his shoulder, and creeping toward his throat.

Marsh gasped for air, but every breath only fueled the fire raging within him, scorching his throat and flooding his mind. He dropped to his knees, vision swimming as the Sjaelmark clawed its way up his shoulder, his neck, and half his face, blackening his eye until he felt like a stranger inside his own body. Thoughts fractured, his grip on himself slipping like sand through his fingers.

The burning spread, consuming him from within, yet his mind remained painfully aware. Each nerve felt stretched to its limit, each breath like swallowing molten glass. His thoughts fractured under the weight of the pain. Faces blurred in his mind—Shyann’s wide, fearful eyes, the sneering face of the thug holding the green knife, advancing on the trio, the crying residents hurdled away behind the collapsing wooden walls.

“Make it stop” he yelled out desperately, though the mark refused him mercy.

Then, something else stirred—a voice not his own. It whispered in the recesses of his mind, cold and ancient. You want to protect them? Then stop holding back. The flames roared higher, and his thoughts splintered entirely. In their place came something darker, something unyielding. When his mouth moved, the words that came out were not his: “This body… this is perfect.”

A wild, desperate laugh escaped his lips, raw and unsettling, echoing across the battlefield. The world around him blurred into a haze of flickering shadows

Rached’s men dumbfoundedly changed their attention back to Marsh, who flung out his arm, as a wave of red-edged, dark, crackling flames erupting from him, tearing through the air like living serpents. They lashed out, consuming the men before they could react, as if the flames themselves wanted to consume the thugs.

"More… more…" he muttered, barely aware of the words as they slipped from his mouth, his voice thick with an unsettling glee. He staggered forward, swinging wildly, half-blind, yet each blow landed with terrifying accuracy. One of Rached’s men came at him with a green blade—Marsh barely registered it, grabbing the edge mid-air, his hand burning through the grass instantly. He yanked the man close, staring at him with void-black eyes.

"Do you feel it?” he hissed, almost feverish. The man stammered, his face drained of all color, but Marsh was already laughing again, tossing him aside like a doll. The Sjaelmark’s influence spiraled higher, slipping past his control, fueling his manic movements with a firestorm of impulses he didn’t recognize as his own.

“Spread out! Surround him!” Rached’s voice cut through the haze, but Marsh laughed louder, the sound breaking into a crazed shout. He swung his arm, and flames erupted outward again in wild, unpredictable waves, black tendrils twisting and spiraling, striking with chaotic abandon. Every movement was exaggerated, every thought fractured. It was power without limits, but his mind felt like it was splintering, fragments of himself barely hanging on amid the surge of heat and darkness.

“This is…this is incredible,” he breathed, his tone slipping into something darker, almost reverent. He turned to face Rached, his movements erratic, his hand blazing. The fire crawled over his skin, undeterred, twisting in eerie, hungry patterns. Rached took an involuntary step back, his face pale.

“Get him!” Rached yelled, but his voice cracked. His men hesitated, faltering at the sight of Marsh’s unsettling form, his eyes lost in blackness, his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.

Marsh advanced, the fire inside him like a monster unleashed, each movement wilder than the last. Blades and weapons swung at him from all sides, but he swatted them aside as if they were nothing, a mix of laughter and gasps escaping him as he reveled in the chaos. Each pulse of power burned, but he couldn’t stop. No, he didn’t want to stop.

“Look at you all,” he taunted, his voice breaking with a frenzied edge. “Do you even know who you’re fighting?” He stretched his arms wide, summoning a torrent of flames that spiraled outward in reckless waves. The flames collided with anything and everything in their path, bursting, consuming, uncontrolled.

Rached’s composure crumbled as the last of his men fell or fled, abandoning him to face the chaos alone. He watched, horrified, as Marsh towered above him, the firestorm swirling with a life of its own. Marsh took a step toward him, his eyes flickering, an eerie smile twisting his face.

“No—no, this is…” Rached stammered, unable to mask the terror in his voice. He took a step back, then another, his retreat frantic, his face drained. Marsh raised his hand, flames licking up his arm, his gaze unsteady but fixed on Rached.

Rached backed away faster, his own voice breaking as he barked orders to the remaining men. “Fall back! Fall back!” he shouted, stumbling as he turned and fled into the darkness. His retreating figure soon vanished, the sound of hurried footsteps fading with him, his followers abandoning any hope of the fight.

The manic grin faded from Marsh’s face, replaced by a flicker of horror as he realized he was losing control. The flames surged, flaring out of him in wild arcs, nearly beyond his ability to contain. He staggered, clutching his head, the pain tearing through him like a storm.

“No—no, not like this!” he yelled, clinging to a pile of black snow, melting in his hands, “I still need to meet her!” He exhaled as the force became too much, his will buckling under the weight of it all.

With the last of his strength, he wrestled back control, the black flames shrinking to embers along his arm. He stumbled, collapsing into the snow, his body burned out and drained, his consciousness slipping away as the night swallowed him in cold silence, leaving only the faint, smoldering memory of what had just happened.

Shyann watched as Marsh collapsed into the snow, the dark red glow from the black ember, faded from his arm. Her chest heaved as she crawled toward him, hesitant at first, the heat still radiating from his limp body. “He... saved us,” she murmured, glancing back at Egi’l and M’riah.

The snow fell silently now, muffling the world around them. The green light from the lamps flickered uneasily, casting shadows over the charred-remains. M’riah stood over Marsh, feeling the heat emanating from his burned arm, unsure whether to touch it. The great Dane sniffed at him, whining softly as Egi’l slumped against a wall, clutching his side. No one spoke as Egi’l staggered towards Marsh's limb body as well, disbelief overwhelmed lingering in his mind. This boy might truly be the one to save this city, or be the one to burn it all down. At this point either way Egi’l truly believed that this boy will make change.

Egi’l and M’riah exchanged grim nods as they wiped blood from their faces. Even in victory, they looked beaten.