The whiskey burned as it flowed down Woden’s throat, a soothing contrast to the cold grass he sat on as he leaned against the trunk of a tree. He didn’t care much for drinking, an unfortunate downside to Pyromancy was the incapability to get inebriated seeing as the fire in his core would usually burn away any alcohol that he drank.

A call from a soldier to his left was responded to by Woden as he snapped his fingers and ignited the sticks they had surrounded with rocks to arrange a fire pit; a shout of thanks gained an acknowledging nod from the Pyromancer. It had been a few days since Astrid had gotten him to ‘join’ the Moths and since then they had moved camp on several occasions, always in pursuit of a new lead on the ever illusive Prophet. Their most recent lead had brought them past a ruin that Woden knew all too well.

It seemed the soldiers were interested in the subject, as Woden picked out bits of conversation that drifted his way. Rumors about the old castle ruins were the subject of tonight's discussion amongst the men as they passed tales of a demon who wandered the land, the one responsible for razing an entire castle to the ground and killing off one of the Human Royal families hundreds of years ago.

The grass shifting next to Woden brought him back from his thoughts as he noticed a familiar flame now sitting next to him. Where it once used to be pure silver, it now showed distinct signs of red flitting through it. The signs of a budding Pyromancer. “You should really come out more often during the day instead of just sitting on the edge of camp the minute the sun sets,” Astrid said, concern dotting her tone, but there was something else there as well. Something it seemed she was trying to ignore.

“Speak what’s on your mind, child,” Woden diverted, taking another drink from his bottle; its flavor was strong and flooded the senses with a certain spice that reminded Woden of simpler times. Times that soothed him. Astrid fidgeted beside him and drank from her own glass before answering.

“How do you make your sword disappear like that? I know you said you’d teach me soon but I’ve been too curious about that to let it go,” she asked in faux curiosity, this time trying to divert the conversation herself. Woden sighed and relented; if she was that desperate to keep her thoughts to herself, then he’d let her reveal them in her own time.

“True pyromancy is much more than manipulation of flame. It’s the manipulation of life. Everything was born from flame in a brilliant battle between the gods known as the Cataclysmic Creation, and that flame is what a true Pyromancer can control.” Woden added a few half-hearted dramatic gestures to his explanation, his dull tone indicating he didn’t have much care for what he was describing. “This means at its most basic form, everything has a flame in it. Realizing this leads you to the ability to manipulate something I call ambient flame.

“It’s likely not something you’ll ever be able to accomplish, at least not to the extent I do it. Being blind allows me to have a much deeper comprehension of ambient flame, allowing me to do things that are almost unimaginable to the sighted, but I’ll detail that to you when the time comes,” Woden responded, letting Astrid believe he had fallen for her false question.

Astrid fell silent as she contemplated his answer, shrugging as she relented in trying to fully understand what he had said. “Anyways, you should come join us over by the fire. A little interaction with other people wouldn’t hurt, or are you just wanting to keep up this loner persona you’ve got going.” Woden turned his head to look at the small Elf with raised a brow; it went mostly unseen due to the blindfold, but he still got the message across.

“I keep my company slim for a reason, child. The less to tie me here, the better,” Woden responded bitterly as he took another swig from his bottle. Astrid looked at Woden with concern in her eyes. He had abandoned his gambeson for the night and donned a loose black shirt that waved in the wind. She only noticed now, but his blindfold was made of a very refined and ornate dark cloth that Astrid had never seen before; it looked like it cost as much as some of the houses in Yenneth.

“Does it have something to do with Loretta?”

The bottle burst in Woden’s hand as Astrid asked her question, making her jump back and yelp in surprise. “How do you know that name,” Woden demanded, blood running down his wrist from the fresh wounds on his hand.

“After that night on the hill I’ve heard you mumble her name under your breath when you’re unfocused. Who is she,” Astrid asked, keeping her distance from the Pyromancer as he stood up, brushing shards of glass from his lap and picking up his sword which had been lying next to him. His hand Idly drifted to his blindfold: it used to be hers, an ornamental cloth with an enchantment that made it immune to fire that she had wrapped around her hands on that night.

“She was the first person to ever show me love. But she’s dead, and for good reason. That’s all there is to it now. Forget the name, I know I’m trying to,” Woden said as he started to move away. “What happened to her?” Astrid asked, making Woden stop in his tracks.

He looked back at Astrid, and saw the woman who once cared for him standing there; her beaming smile plastered on her familiarly kind face, but her usually peachy skin was pale. Her face contorted into agony and disdain as Woden remembered that night, her clothing shifted to the black garb she had donned.

His grip tightened around the handle of his weapon as his eyes traced the wide tear in her chest. A hole he had put there with the sword she had gifted to him, a sword enchanted to weaken his Pyromancy. He was just a boy back then, more blind to the world than he is now. He never once questioned Loretta when she gave him the weapon, even though gripping it made him feel exhausted.

He was scorned by every human that ever saw him, his flames a curse in their eyes. Driven out of the city, he was forced to live in a farmhouse, estranged from any contact, human or otherwise; it was only reasonable that he’d latch onto the first semblance of warmth he had felt since his birth. But it wasn’t warmth. It was the first sign that he had started freezing to death.

Loretta’s last words hadn’t served to comfort Woden, or to explain that she had been forced to kill him by the king or some intricate plot like that. No, her final words were reserved for detailing her true feelings towards the Pyromancer. Feelings of hatred, resentment, disgust. The same he had been subjected to his entire life.

His life after held no more comfort than before, years of wandering in a rage eventually led the Cult to his door, and they tortured him until he went blind. He saw it as a cruel blessing, now. It let him become significantly more in tune with the one thing he had been hated for his whole life, and the Rune only bolstered that.

Woden snapped out of his recollections and noticed Astrid had moved closer to him. He smiled down at her; she really was so much like him. But he wouldn’t let her become him, he wouldn’t make Astrid go through what Loretta had made him go through. She would be better, he’d make sure of it.

“Woden, what happened to her,” Astrid asked again, her brown knit in deepened concern as she looked at the somber smile of the Pyromancer. Woden drew his sword and held it out in front of him, letting Astrid take it in properly for the first time. There were strange Elven runes that traced the blade and hilt, seemingly pulsing with power, but that wasn’t what grabbed her attention. She noticed for the first time the almost glimmering red stain that trailed from the tip of the blade to the midsection. Woden sighed.

“Her blood still lingers on my sword, no matter how many times I try to polish or clean it. It’s a reminder. A reminder of the night I became what I am. I killed her. I killed her, and after she died I made sure nobody made it out of that city alive. It was a massacre, and then I burnt it all to the ground. I left that castle in ruins, and I would do it all again if I could.”

The Attendant hummed carelessly as they strolled down the otherworldly paths in the Sanguine Garden, only stopping to make sure the trees were healthy. The ground beneath their feet shook, and they let out an aggravated sigh as they turned to the flaming god.

“Svarog, I know you’re not thrilled about your failure to find the Pyromancer, but that’s no excuse to endanger the trees,” they tried to reason, only receiving a furious glare from the god in response.

“I created you for one reason, Attendant. To make sure the binding happened as soon as possible. With that possibility burnt, It will take years for it to occur. Need I remind you we don't have time to waste,” the god spat, removing their breastplate with a wave of their hand, revealing a large and festering wound.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I was… unaware of how bad it had gotten. All of this from one hit of Vishan’s weapon?” the attendant asked softly, their form ever-shifting. Their hand stretched out and they gently touched the gash. Svarog hissed in pain as the wound healed before slowly beginning to open once more.

“That should buy you a little more time. And what are these,” the Attendant scolded, running their hand over the puncture wounds dotting Svarog’s chest which also closed, this time without reopening.

“Rugia was summoned by the Pyromancer when I went out in that storm. He’s more dangerous than we gave him credit for,” Svarog said, waving the Attendant off and donning his breastplate once again.

“Something was hiding the Pyromancer from me. No matter how hard I looked for traces of his being, I couldn’t find any,” Svarog detailed, confusion and concern lacing his voice.

Their conversation was disrupted when a tear opened atop a platform, and from it stepped a massive figure wearing thick and heavy armor that swirled with dots of white on a pitch-black covering akin to the night sky. Tassels of gold cloth trailed from the joints on his upper body and waist. His helmet shifted between appearances, currently settled on a twisted visage that exuded malcontent, the rest of his appearance distinctly lacking in intricate detail.

“Svarog!” Vishan yelled out as he marched towards the other god, grabbing at nothing but finding something, wrenching an axe from thin air. “Come now, you’re not stupid enough to fight me here. You do know what any damage to these trees would cause, right,” Svarog taunted as Vishan swung his axe, stopping short of Svarog’s neck by a few millimeters

“Do you think this is what Nox wanted? Do you think she would’ve wanted you to try and kill all of us in some misguided attempt of vengeance? Were you even thinking when you beat Rugia’s skull in?!” Vishan shouted, his arm shaking and dangerously close to letting his axe drop into the flaming knight.

“She’ll live, won’t she? She went after me, not the other way around. Take it as a mercy that I let her live. And don’t you dare to think you can mention Nox as if you’d know what she’d want.”

Vishan’s shaking worsened, but he moved his blade from Svarog’s neck. “I swear I’ll make you pay for that,” he said, before turning on his heel and marching back to the platform, stepping through the tear in the void.

𐇲𐇲𐇲

Grayson sighed and drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing the letter in front of him nervously. The Royal Army had sent a courier stating that one of their divisions requested council with him in the nearby city of Ashbourn. He got up from his desk and began pacing around the room. His room was large; one of the largest in the castle which was still undergoing repairs from when Grayson and his militia had raided it, taking it for themselves. The floors were made of black walnut, but the walls were stone. His axe hung next to his bed which had to be custom-made to accommodate his height. One large window on the far left side of the room provided ample natural lighting, however, Grayson preferred to keep the curtains closed on most days. When night fell he would open them slightly; they gave a perfect view of the moon and it always seemed to calm his racing thoughts.

The courier had been less than friendly, and Grayson got the distinct impression that he was sent to intimidate him; his build was that of someone who fought and led wars, not delivered letters. This had something to do with Cinris, it had to. But what would the Royal Army want with him?

Grayson’s thoughts drifted back to the morning Cinris had left. He didn’t care how much Vale tried to convince him, he wouldn’t forgive Cinris for leaving again. No matter how much he wanted to. He sighed as his mind drifted to his childhood with him and Vale; he wished he hadn’t dragged the two of them into this ambition of his.

Vale and Cinris were perfectly content where they were back when they were kids, it was always Grayson who had dreams of something more. He was the one who had pulled them from the comfort of that old town they lived in. If he hadn’t, maybe they wouldn’t have had to suffer as much as they did.

He waved the thought away. The town was falling apart, if he hadn't helped them leave then eventually they would’ve died from something or other. That place was not fit for a group of orphans with a wanderlust.

A light knock on his door brought him back from his recollection, and Vale stepped in without waiting for an answer. “Grayson, we need to talk,” Vale said, walking over to the commander. Grayson sat down at his desk and sighed.

“Vale, if this is about Cinris, I don’t care to-”

“Oh shut up, this is important,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. Grayson blinked and closed his mouth, thoroughly appalled at Vale’s words. She handed him a neatly folded slip of paper and stepped back, crossing her arms and sighing as she mumbled something to herself.

“What’s this,” Grayson asked, holding it up and motioning towards it. “Well open the damn thing and you might just find out,” Vale snapped, once again startling Grayson. He obliged and unfolded the paper, seeing a strikingly good drawing of a familiar face.

“Oh… shit,” he said, staring at the wanted poster. It was Cinris. “Wanted, the Prophet to The Cult of Svarog, conspirator in the False Moon tragedy. Any information is to be reported directly to the Royal Army or your town's guard,” Grayson read out loud before looking up at Vale from the paper.

“The name at the bottom, it’s the same one on the letter you received. Lynn Vancrest. I don’t want to make any assumptions here, but I’m guessing they want to see you because they know of your past with him,” Vale said. “And if that’s the case, I’m coming with you.”

“Vale, no. They asked for me alone,” Grayson rebuked, but Vale waved the answer away. “I don’t care, if I did I wouldn’t have even suggested it. This is either a trap or it’s something else entirely, but I’ve got a bad feeling about it regardless. Not to mention your ribs are still healing. I’m coming with, that’s final,” she said, taking a step forward and looking up into the commander's eyes.

Grayson took an instinctual step back; Vale might’ve been physically weaker and significantly shorter than him, but if the group needed information from a captive, she was the go-to torturer. The screams he would hear from their captives were enough to shake any man to the bone. Suffice to say, she intimidated him.

Determination flared in Vale's eyes as she glared up at the commander, but there wasn’t anger in her eyes. It was more of a pleading expression than a hateful one. Grayson sighed as his mind drifted back to their childhood once more. Out of the three, she had always been the most adventurous; Grayson liked to stay in one place and hold down the fort, and Cinris was too timid and wary. Something Vale would quickly wear down as she dragged him along on every adventure she went on. Grayson could tell that being cooped up in this old castle was driving her insane.

“Are you sure about this,” Grayson asks, still apprehensive. “Absolutely,” Vale responded with a slow nod. Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, relenting with a wave of his hand and a mumble of acceptance. A broad grin spread across Vale’s face.

“Good choice, I’ll start preparing. We set out tomorrow,” she said, turning and walking to the door. Grayson nodded and after the door shut, he sighed and sat on his bed, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through his body from his chest. Grayson slowly took off the loose shirt he was wearing, careful not to prod his wound, revealing a heavily bandaged chest.

He undid them, and after a few grunts of pain, they fully came loose. He still didn’t fully understand what Svarog was, but from what he had gathered from the very few books he could find that talked about him, he was a god. A god worshipped by the Cult that had taken Cinris and one that was widely regarded as fake.

Grayson's brows knit in equal parts awe and dread as he looked at the spot where Svarog’s fist had connected with his chest. Long, contorted scar patterns had developed, sprawling out like fractures in the ground twisting from a crater. They pulsed almost in tune with his heartbeat, and with each pulse he could feel his bones twisting back into place, the scars turning black when they did. But he felt like it was draining something from him. Something that felt distant. Regardless, with every pulse, he felt something grow more and more hollow, and gods did it hurt. He was able to put on a front for the soldiers and Vale, but it was starting to become unbearable.

That wasn’t his main concern at the moment, however. The scars had spread; Where once they sprawled in a small circle slightly larger than Svarog’s fist, they now almost reached his shoulders. His breath came out in heaves as he wrapped the bandages around his torso once more, the pain from his injury growing in intensity coupled with the dread bubbling in his gut that was slowly overtaking him.

He put his hand over his mouth as his breathing grew more and more ragged, his eyes wide and beads of sweat running down his forehead as his anxiety boiled over. He hadn’t felt this way in years, this overwhelming fear and terrible sense of loss. The last time he had felt it was when Cinris had fallen during the castle siege.

His voice shook as he mumbled reassurances to himself, repeating over and over that it would be okay, trying to convince himself of it. Another pulse of pain wracked his body with such intensity that he fell off of his bed and onto his knees, clutching his chest as saliva dripped from his mouth. And somewhere, something began to thrum with power.

🜎