THE ATTENDANT TILTED THEIR HEAD. “WELL, THAT'S NEW.” A ONCE-BLOSSOMING TREE SAT AS NOTHING MORE THAN A CHARRED STUMP, CRIMSON LEAVES DANCING IN THE WIND WITH THE EMBERS. WITH A WISTFUL SIGH, THEY WAVED THEIR HAND, DISCONNECTING THE PEARLESCENT TILE IT SAT ON, SENDING IT DRIFTING INTO DARKNESS. “AT LEAST THAT MEANS THE REST OF YOU WILL BE A BIT MORE INTERESTING,” THEY SAID, GESTURING BROADLY AT THE REST OF THE TREES LINING THE PATH, STRETCHING OFF INTO THE ENDLESS VOID AROUND THEM.

“May the branches you blossom befit the Sanguine Garden.”

𐇲𐇲𐇲

Woden leaned up against a boulder and sighed a heavy sigh, gazing up at the sprawling night sky in the small clearing he had come to in the densely wooded forest. It was a bit sad, leaving the dysfunctional group he had joined, but he worked better alone. A twig snapped to his right, but he didn’t turn to look at it, not like turning would help much, he was blind after all.

He didn’t need eyesight in the traditional sense, he saw with flame. Everything, living or otherwise, had a flame, all unique and vibrant. Each star that dotted the night sky had its own flame, brilliant and beautiful, and he marveled at the vastness of it all. Sometimes, those flames could be manipulated in untraditional ways, allowing him to do things that far outstretched what the general masses deemed Pyromancy. Even the air around him had flame, and if he manipulated that he could use it to conceal and carry things for him. He called it ambient flame. The only reason he could do it was likely because of his right eye, where Svarog’s symbol sat. It enhanced his Pyromancies and made him formidable in every sense of the word.

It also meant he was unnaturally attuned to his surroundings. He knew the ins and outs of the land for miles. That only made him more suspicious of the discrepancies he was seeing. He had lived long enough to recognize illusion magics. He didn’t know when they had started, but he was being tailed, and they were trying to trick him. He couldn’t tell how extensive the illusions were, but before he could get a closer look at his surroundings a voice interrupted his thoughts

“Nice night, isn't it?” a voice called out from somewhere behind Woden, and he craned his neck to get a better view of the flame approaching him. They walked with a regality and status that almost made Woden bow on reflex, and their flame was a brilliant silver. “The air is comforting, I suppose. Not much for me to see, though,” he bluffed.

“I’m sure there would be if you took the blindfold off,” the silver-flamed individual laughed. “Wouldn’t change a thing,” Woden responded with a smile. A beat of silence passed before the person realized what he meant. “Ah… I see. My apologies, I didn’t realize.” Woden heard the jangling of chainmail and shifting of armor as the figure sat next to him. Woden tensed, they wanted something.

“My name is Astrid, what’s yours,” the silver flame greeted, holding out their hand before catching themselves and lowering their arm; their flame flickered in embarrassment. “Vulcan.” Woden bluffed again, keeping his guard up. “Why did you choose to talk to me, Astrid? I’m just an old, blind wanderer. You’d have had a much easier time of taking my things if you had never greeted me in the first place.” He said, letting his apprehension show.

“Well I just so happen to be looking for someone. You fit the bill pretty well, Vulcan. Although there are a few things that are off.” She said, the superiority in her voice making Woden boil with rage. He didn’t like being talked down to. “Have you happened to come across any Pyromancers lately?” She said. Even without eyesight, Woden could see the smile spread across her face.

“This is suicide, you know,” Woden said, the facade dropping as he pulled himself to his feet. “If you think she came alone you’re less bright than we were told,” a new voice from behind taunted, and he felt cold steel press against his neck. “My words were for all of you.” Woden gestured broadly at the faint fires surrounding him, at least a hundred, all with charms to suppress their flames.

The voice behind him scoffed, and Woden turned his head, getting a look at his silver flame. This one was tainted, though. Inky black trails flowed through it; trails of hatred, anger, and a want for revenge. Trails of a broken man. “That’s quite the bloodlust you’ve got boiling in your core. Who’s it for, I wonder?” Woden’s taunt caused the flames to explode in fury; with a roar they pulled their sword back, preparing to pierce Woden’s neck, but Woden stopped the man with a glare.

“I’m not the one who’s blood that blade wants to taste. It won’t strike true,” Woden said, directing the tip of the sword away with his hand. The man struggled to reorient his blade, to even move at all, but he was frozen, a weight pressing down on his shoulders and rooting him to the spot. “Flames, however? Flames are not so picky.” Woden poured flame from his core; ink black in color and burning hotter than any inferno.

“And my flame aches to extinguish others.”

The sharp screeching of twisting armor permeated through the forest as Woden slammed his fist into the man's chest, sending him flying at least fifteen feet into the air before he fell to the ground. “Lynn!” Astrid cried out, and Woden ducked a swing from one of her swords, removing his sword from ambient flame to block the other.

“You face the Divine Pyromancer of Accursed Flame, Tortured Beast of The Gods of Creation, and whatever other titles those I’ve killed have granted me. Are you sure you’re ready for the consequences of your actions?” Woden said, his blindfold undoing itself and revealing a Rune spinning in his right eye. The Rune belonged to the language of the Cult. Rexiform. It strengthened the potency of Pyromancy and in turn made the flames Woden used to see more detailed. It was almost exactly akin to eyesight.

“I’ve faced death before,” Astrid spat at the Pyromancer. “Death is a mercy. You face a torturous eternity,” Woden said flatly. He heard the sounds of bows being drawn back all around him and saw the man named Lynn already pulling himself to his feet. If he committed to this fight, he wasn’t coming out unscathed.

“I suggest for both of our sakes you concede this fight and let me go. I’m sure you’ve realized the most you'll take from me is a limb I’ll inevitably grow back,” Woden said, making sure every syllable that he let slip from his mouth sounded more threatening than the last. Astrid winced and looked to Lynn for advice. He gave her a slow nod.

“We have been tasked with rooting out any Cultists of Svarog that still walk the earth, whether it costs us our lives or not. That includes slaughtering any so-called ‘pyromancer of accursed flame’,” Lynn opened his mouth to continue but was cut off by a roar from Woden: “Cultist?! You think for a second that I would be one of them?”

The sudden outburst startled Lynn, when suddenly an idea formed in the back of his mind. “In that case, why don’t we work togeth-” Lynn was cut off once again as Woden appeared in front of him, hand wrapped firmly around his throat. “You insult me. Bring me down to their level. And you expect me to go along with you? You’re a joke.”

Woden dropped the gasping elf and turned his attention to the other soldiers around him. "I suggest you let me leave."

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Not a single word was uttered as Woden grabbed his bags and blindfold, casting a sideways glance at Astrid before starting through the forest. Suddenly, he stopped and sighed. "If you're going to try and bind me in an illusion you could at least try and get the trees correct," he said. His surroundings dissipated, and he found himself lying on a cot in a tent; Astrid sat on a chair nearby, watching him.

“You were quite troublesome to enchant, Woden. What exactly are you?” She inquired. Woden raised a hand, glaring, “You answer my questions first. Then I'll think about answering yours.” Astrid scoffed. “Do you really think you're in a position to make demands,” she asks, raising a brow.

“Do you really think you're safe enough to threaten me?” Woden responded, bloodlust pouring from each syllable in his sentence. Despite the Pyromancer being mostly immobile, Astrid tensed. "No, I suppose not."

“How long have I been under your spell,” Woden asked, trying to stand but finding himself unable to do so. “Not long. A few hours at most,” She responded. “You won't be able to walk for a while, the drug in your system is still wearing off. We found you wandering in the forest and recognized you from an old contract. Lynn pricked you with a needle, I cast the spell. That’s about it.” Woden clenched his jaw in frustration. He hadn’t even noticed them. He was getting sloppy.

“Next question. What do you want from me?” he asked, finding the feeling in his legs slowly returning. Astrid’s face fell into a dead serious expression; if the power gap between the two wasn’t so vast, Woden might’ve even felt intimidated. “We need your help. I recognize you might not be too keen on it, but as it stands we’ll need every fighter we can get our hands on.”

Woden considered the offer seriously this time. He did ache for revenge on the Cult, but was partnering with the royal army worth it? He didn’t much care for ties to those of great influence, and besides, he had just left a group because he wanted to work alone. “Why should I say yes,” he asked, returning Astrid’s stern gaze.

“I suppose there isn’t a reason for you to. But wouldn’t you love burning one of those bastard cultist leaders? Because that’s who we’re after. One of the pillars of power in the cult. The Divine Prophet.” Woden’s ears perked up in recognition and a sly smile spread across his face. So, they were after him, eh? Well, this should prove interesting, he thought. He had been curious what the limits of the Prophet were since he had met him.

“Well I can't exactly refuse that. It should be a sight to behold.” He chuckled grimly, pulling himself to his feet. These fools were walking headlong into their deaths and were none the wiser. Astrid smiled and extended a hand, which Woden took. “Glad we could come to an agreement, Pyromancer.”

° ° °

“You’re kidding!” Huojin shouted, slamming his tankard onto the table and roaring with laughter. “Not even a little,” Grayson responded, smirking into his cup as he drank deeply. “With how aloof and cold he is nowadays, I never would’ve guessed he was such a klutz,” Huojin said through bouts of laughter, getting another drink from the keg they had found in one of the slaver’s wagons and trying his best to collect himself.

Grayson chuckled. “You should’ve seen him try and confess his feelings to Vale the first time. Gods, what a mess that was.” Huojin took a swig from his mug, and with a frighteningly mischievous grin, implored Grayson to continue: “Well you can't just leave me hanging, can you?”

“They had both been head over heels for each other since we were all kids, but neither of them ever noticed. It was baffling. When I finally convinced Cinris to shoot his shot, apparently Vale had decided to do the same. No matter how hard they tried, they just couldn’t get it out. I’ll cherish the memory of them both stumbling over their words and interrupting each other over and over until the day I die,” Grayson said, smiling as the image of the two sitting awkwardly on top of a hill flashed in his mind.

Huojin stared dumbfounded at the man before chuckling and shaking his head, but Grayson’s smile had all but fallen. The memories hurt more than he had expected them to. Huojin noticed and let out a deep sigh. “I’ll go look for him,” he said, patting the massive man on the shoulder. Grayson gave a nod and took another drink.

The wind was bitingly cold, and Huojin was nowhere near bundled up enough to handle it, but the warmth from the alcohol in his gut kept him comfortable enough. The night was so beautiful that it was almost entrancing. Vibrant colors danced along the blanket of blackness that covered the sky. Huojin took a deep breath, the frigid air traveling through his throat and filling his lungs.

He looked around their camp for a few minutes, finding nothing before looking around the outskirts. He came to a stop at the bottom of a hill; the Prophet always did like laying in the grass and gazing at the stars. As he walked up, he noticed a silhouette. With a sigh, he called out, only to be silenced by a distinctly not-Prophet shushing. Confused, he jogged to the side of the person, only to see it’s Vale.

“Wha-” Huojin stopped himself, noticing the Prophet lying in the grass, his eyes closed and his head resting on Vale’s thigh. “Is he… sleeping?” Huojin whispered, baffled. He had never once, in all the years he’d known him, seen the Prophet sleep. Vale responded with a nod and a light laugh, running her hand through his hair.

“Well. I don’t wanna third wheel so I think I’ll take my leave. Just don't freeze to death out here, alright?” Huojin said with a nod, but Vale stopped him. “Don’t, uh… don't tease him about this. Don’t even mention you saw it. I like seeing this side of him, but he hates showing it around others,” She asked sincerely.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Huojin reassured with a warm smile.

A beat of silence passed, the cold air feeling oddly calming as it blew across the field; streaks of purple and teal danced across the night sky, only adding to the beauty of the night. Vale sighed, and Huojin noticed a tear running down her pale face.

“Cinris said that you’ll both be leaving tomorrow, kept apologizing over and over for it. He kept saying he was being hunted. He never told me why, though.” Vale looked at Huojin, a pleading look in her eyes, begging for an answer. Huojin opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, closing his mouth and shaking his head.

“It’s not my place to tell. Hell even I hardly know the full story. I hope you can forgive him, though,” Huojin answered, smiling wistfully. Vale grit her teeth and looked down at Cinris, tears falling freely from her face. “I don’t think I could bring myself to hold that grudge, even if I wanted to,” she mumbled.

“Thanks, I’m sure that’ll help keep him from doing anything too reckless,” Huojin comforted before starting down the hill, casting one last glance at Vale and the Prophet. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, smiling and shaking his head.

The Attendant held their hands up in a placating manner as the massive flaming knight pointed their sword at them. “I assure you, Svarog, I have yet to manipulate these trees in any way except trimming the dead branches.”

The God bristled. “Do you expect me to just believe that? You think I’ll just accept that one of the trees simply burst into flame?!” The Attendant grew annoyed at the God’s disrespectful tone.

“Why, in any circumstance, would I burn that tree? I know how important it was. Perhaps you weren’t as thorough as you thought in your cleansing.”

Svarog huffed, but lowered his blade. “In that case, who could’ve possibly-” he stopped himself, a realization dawning. “The Pyromancer.” The God waved his hand in empty space, opening a portal to the mortal realm yet again.

“I’ll be back, Attendant. I need to take care of a loose end.”

🜎