It was the right decision. Ember knew that much. Even as the dense haze seemed to choke the breath from her lungs, as a hundred shifting shadows danced at the edges of her vision, their whispers crashing over her like dark waves, she knew she had made the right decision. This was better.

Let them devour her while Penta got away. He wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. Not of this. Not of her.

She just needed to buy him time. Enough for him to vanish into the Mistlands, maybe enough to find his way to something brighter. If she could manage that, maybe her life would have some value. Maybe, just maybe, someone would finally be glad she had been here.

“Sorry, dear family,” Ember wheezed, every breath a struggle as she forced the words through gritted teeth. “If you really want me back, then come and get me.”

And she ran. Opposite from the direction she’d pushed him, she ran.

She didn’t know where she was going, and it didn’t matter. Through the haze of her own fragmented memories, she ran as fast as she could. The closest shadows she broke through, scattering them like smoke. They weren’t solid—not truly—but the cold bite of their passing sank into her bones, leaving her trembling, staggering even as she pushed forward.

The whispers rose into an angry cacophony. Snarling voices tearing through her mind, pulling her back into moments she thought long buried.

Still, she didn’t look back. Not at the shadows, not at the path she’d left behind.

They’re not real. Don’t listen. Penta’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of her mind, clear and sharp despite everything else. A futile mantra. You couldn’t shut them out. Not really. She’d seen the strain in him, too, the cracks forming behind his bravado.

This was the only way.

Ember didn’t wish to die, but if that’s what it came to, she wouldn’t pull Penta down with her.

“Where are you going?” The voice that called after her was small and fragile. Too familiar. A shadow of a six or seven year old Vaelen stumbled through the mist, panting as it struggled to keep up with her. “Wait for me. I want to—”

“Wrong,” Ember hissed, her boot snapping forward to shatter the illusion mid-stride. The shadow splintered, breaking like glass, its pieces dissolving into the mist.

Her whole body seized at the effort, cold trickling through her veins like ice water, stealing her strength. Noted, she thought grimly. Stay away from the shadows.

Still, a bitter laugh clawed its way out of her throat. “I was always the one chasing you,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. “Try harder.”

For nearly a decade, she had struggled to keep up with Vaelen’s effortless brilliance, her cousin’s star rising higher and brighter than anyone ever thought to hope for Ember. For the shadow to chase her now was nothing but wishful thinking, another cruel joke spun from the mist.

And even knowing that, it still stung.

The world seemed to take her challenge as an invitation. The mist folded around her, shifting with the dizzying tilt of a dream. She didn’t even have time to gasp before she was lying on her back in a patch of grass.

The sky above her was golden with evening light. Somewhere nearby, the soft buzz of summer insects hummed like a lullaby. Ember’s breath caught as she raised her hand. Small, chubby fingers reached toward the sky.

“It’s nice to just lay down every once in a while, isn’t it?” her father murmured from beside her.

The sound of his voice—warm, unhurried—stirred something in her chest. She could hear the calm rhythm of his breathing, see the slow rise and fall of his chest out of the corner of her eye.

“Nu-uh,” Ember firmly objected, her smaller self sitting up with a defiance that left no room for argument. Even then, she was stubborn. “More games. You promised we’d play until nightfall.”

Her father let out a soft groan, exaggerated for effect. “We’re almost there, though,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “And you’ve already won every game there is to win.”

“That’s because you keep giving up too early,” she shot back, pushing at his side with all the might her small frame could muster. He rolled over onto his stomach, sprawling like a man undone.

“I’m just a little dead,” her father sighed into the grass.

“Then get up!” Ember declared, her tone one of absolute authority. “You’re the one who always says there’s no giving up for an adventurer. They fight to the bitter end—until they either stand victorious or drop dead. Fully dead. You’re not fully dead yet, are you?”

Her father groaned again, dramatic and wheezing. “No, just a little,” he conceded.

“Then on your feet you go!” she demanded, standing upright herself, fists on her hips. “We’ll play until you’re fully dead or the sun sets. Whichever comes first!”

The laughter had bubbled out of him then, uncontainable and bright. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in years, and it warmed her to hear it again—even now, even here.

But the warmth shattered in an instant.

The golden light fractured, and the grass beneath her melted into ash.

Tears struck the dead soil underneath her face, hot and unrelenting. Ember blinked hard, her vision swimming. When had her head grown so heavy? Her fingers curled into fists, trembling against the earth. When had the mist become so suffocating, its weight crushing her ribs? Even without turning, she could feel its weight, its rancid hunger clawing at her from the inside out.

The cold was everywhere now, biting into her as if it meant to hollow her out entirely. It wasn’t just in her skin or her bones; it felt as if it had reached the fragile core of her very soul. And yet, despite it all, a laugh bubbled up, sharp and defiant.

“Too bad,” she wheezed, flames stuttering to life between her fingers. They flickered unevenly, but their warmth was real, and for now, that was enough. “That was one of my few good memories.”

With a sudden, desperate motion, she lashed out, her fist connecting with something solid looming over her. Something real. It was brittle and icy cold, like the flesh of a corpse long left to decay.

The thing reeled back with a shriek so piercing it fractured her thoughts like glass. Ember squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her head as though she could hold the shards of herself together. Just as the sound reached the brink of madness, the crushing pressure lifted, and she gasped for air as if breaking the surface of a deep, dark lake.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Her vision swam, but she forced herself upright, staggering as spindly limbs recoiled from her. And there it was. Standing before her.

This time, it didn’t wear the faces of her family or the guise of her own younger self. No illusions. No pretense. Just the creature as it truly was—ugly, wrong, hungry.

Its shape was sharper now, more defined. She could see the jagged angles of its limbs, the slack, grotesque way its jaw hung too wide, its edges merging with the mist yet somehow separate from it. For the first time, it felt tangible. Vulnerable, even.

“Ah,” Ember rasped, hands raised in the feeble mockery of a fighter’s stance. “Vulnerable while you feed? How unfortuna—”

Her words died in her throat as another shriek lanced through her mind. This one was shorter, sharper, but it struck with the force of a javelin.

She didn’t notice herself falling until the ground slammed into her knees. Blood ran hot from her nose, her ears, her eyes. She coughed, the taste of copper filling her mouth.

“Damn,” she muttered, her voice slurring as her vision dimmed. “Just… damn...”

Her arms gave out as she tried to rise, sending her crashing to her side. The impact barely registered. There was nothing now—no heat, no pain. Only the cold, creeping deeper, pulling her further into its numbing embrace.

She tried to move. She tried to think. But everything was slipping away.

And there it was, looming over her. It flickered, its edges unstable, shifting between silhouettes as if sifting through her memories for the sharpest blade to carve her with. Her father’s furrowed brow, Uncle’s stoic disappointment, Vaelen’s tear-streaked face, Olsen’s courteous smiles. And then, Penta.

Why him?

The figure crouched low, closer now, barely visible as the mist thickened, dimming alongside her waning consciousness. Its voice came next, cruel and callous, dripping with scorn. “Why did you try to play the hero?” it mocked, each word a jagged edge against her resolve. “Someone like you could never fill that role. Useless as you are, you should have left it to someone—”

“To someone like you?” Ember interrupted, her laugh dry and ragged, little more than a breath slipping from her lips. Amused, despite herself. Despite the cold. Despite the weight.

The creature stilled, and for a fleeting moment, it almost seemed taken aback.

Her lips curved into something like a grin, bitter and defiant. This thing didn’t know much, did it? There was no way someone like Penta would—

She blinked, and the head of the silhouette snapped to the side, unnaturally fast, its movements sharp and jerking, like a marionette yanked by unseen strings.

And then it came. A sound ripping through the mist, loud and primal—a scream. Not hers. Not the creature’s.

Someone else.

The scream grew, swelling, crashing through the oppressive quiet like a storm until—another Penta broke through the mist, a streak of wild motion and raw desperation.

Ember’s breath caught, her mind stuttering to keep up. She could only stare as this second figure—so vivid, so real—barreled into the first with a senseless roar, colliding like a thunderclap.

The world twisted again, a moment stretched taut until it snapped.

The scream turned sharp, pained.

And just as quickly as it began, the fight was over.

The first silhouette flickered, its stolen shapes unraveling as its spindly limb plunged forward, piercing clean through the chest of the newcomer.

Ember froze.

Time fractured into pieces around her as the figure crumpled, slipping off the creature’s limb like a doll discarded by an unkind child. A lifeless heap on the ashen ground.

“No…” Ember whispered, the word cracking in her throat.

The mist seemed to pulse as if with breath, heavy and alive, and the creature shrieked—a sound of triumph, sharp and gloating.

But Ember barely heard it. The blood was roaring too loudly in her ears.

“Penta?” she croaked. Her voice faltered, caught between disbelief and despair.

But there was no answer.

The figure lay motionless.

The creature stood over him, a shadow against shadows, silent and still, like a monument to her failure.

“Penta?” she repeated, her voice raw and cracking under the weight of the name. It couldn’t be him. It shouldn’t be him. Her mind raced, tangling itself in knots. She had pushed him away. She’d led the creature away, hadn’t she? She’d ensured his safety. Why? Why had he come here?

For her?

Her hands trembled as her gaze locked on the scene before her. The creature loomed over his lifeless form, unhurried, indifferent. Wisps of something pale and glimmering rose from Penta’s body like threads unraveling from a tapestry, drawn toward the creature’s yawning maw. It wasn’t flesh it was devouring.

It was his soul.

A crack split open inside Ember, hollow and jagged. And from that fissure, anger poured forth, molten and consuming, a fire too wild to be held. It burned through her veins, pooling in her chest, in her throat, behind her eyes.

This wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. He had come back for her. For her.

The blood in her ears roared like a relentless drumbeat, drowning out everything else. Her fingers dug into the dirt, clawing, struggling for any strength at all. She had to stand. She had to fight. She had to stop it.

Another roar tore itself from her lungs, desperate and primal. Heat surged through her body, blistering and chaotic, searing her nerves and scattering her focus. Her vision blurred, the edges of the world warping and twisting. A hundred scorching irons seemed to pierce her skin at once.

Flames sputtered and died on her fingertips, weak and fleeting.

“Surge!” she screamed, her voice raw and broken.

For a fleeting moment, the fire gathered, coiling at her right shoulder blade like a viper poised to strike. Bright flames rushed down her arm, fierce and hungry—and then, just as quickly, they dissipated. Gone. Useless.

It was yet to weak to live outside her. But the fire didn’t leave entirely. At the nape of her neck, something different awakened. A forge blazed to life, billows pumping, an inferno roaring to existence. It wasn’t fleeting. It was steady. Relentless.

The pain came next, sharper and hotter than any fire she’d known. Her back ignited as if her skin itself were splitting apart, and for the first time, the mist-borne creature faltered, its gaze snapping to her.

But it was already too late.

With a scream that ripped the air apart, Ember surged forward, her body dripping blood and smoke, her vision a haze of fury. She collided with the creature, a living inferno, fists slamming, fingers clawing, teeth sinking into its spindly, lifeless limbs.

“Surge! Surge! Surge!”

She didn’t care about the pain. She didn’t care about anything except this moment.

Burn it. Burn it all. Let it all go out in a blaze of glory.

She didn’t hear the shrieks, those sounds that had once torn her mind apart. Nor the brittle crack of her own bones, nor the soft sizzle of her smoldering clothes. The world had gone silent in the way only exhaustion could bring—a silence thick and consuming, as though nothing else dared to intrude.

All that remained were her wheezing breaths and the faint, uneven sounds of someone else’s. Someone she desperately hoped was still alive.

“Penta?” Her voice was hoarse, caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea. She stumbled to his side through the haze, each movement clumsy, her limbs foreign and unsteady beneath her. Everything felt numb, distant, like she wasn’t truly in her own skin.

He was alive. He had to be. Even though his skin was pallid, his chest barely moving, blood pooling beneath him like a shadow pulling him under.

Her fingers brushed against his cheek, a fumbling attempt to feel for a pulse, to sense a breath—anything. What were you even supposed to do in a moment like this? How were you supposed to tell if…

But then, his one eyelid weakly fluttered open. Just barely. Like the fragile wingbeats of a dying butterfly.

His gaze, glassy and unfocused, struggled to find her. Yet still, he smiled—a faint, crooked thing that almost broke her all over again.

“I can see why they call you Ember now,” he murmured, his voice thin as a thread of smoke. “It’s a fitting name…”

“Moron,” she hissed, though the insult barely carried weight. It was all she could do to keep the trembling relief from consuming her entirely. But the sigh that escaped her was short-lived. He was still fading, slipping through her grasp with every heartbeat that didn’t come fast enough.

She clenched her jaw, the fire in her veins threatening to roar back to life. She needed to act, to think. But first, she had to ask. She needed to know.

“Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why did you come back?”

His lips twitched, curving into a faint grin that looked almost triumphant. Weak fingers reached out and pressed something into her hand. She didn’t need to look to know what it was.

The compass.

The same one she’d slipped into his pocket before shoving him away.

“Because I couldn’t let some spoiled noble lady be cooler than me,” he murmured, his grin widening just enough to sting her chest. “Turns out… there really was something here. Even though I was the one carrying the food…” His eyelids fluttered again, threatening to close. His voice so weak. Painfully weak.

“It led me back to you.”