As they pushed into the crowd, Vivian led the way with surprising ease, weaving through bodies like she belonged there. Somehow, they ended up at the front of the growing mass of onlookers.
Arcose felt it instantly—the air shifted. Thicker. Heavier. Like something unseen was pressing down on him, wrapping around his lungs and making each breath harder than the last. His legs trembled—not from fear, but from pressure, like the air itself was weighted.
What the fuck is happening to me? he thought, swallowing hard.
In the center stood a man in an ash-grey cloak, his skin dusted with soot. His eyes were black, glassy voids—like holes punched through reality. He said nothing. Just held a bone-white flute in his hands, cracked and weathered like it had survived a fire. Or died in one.
Arcose narrowed his eyes. There was something off about this guy.
Yeah, I know what's off—you look like a creepy-ass assclown straight outta a corpse circus, a voice in his head said—his own, sarcastic and sharp.
The crowd was hushed, tense.
Behind him, whispers drifted like smoke.
"I heard... he's an Ash Seer," someone murmured.
"A what?" a skeptical voice replied.
"Blind wanderers. They tell stories that come true. Prophecies, they say..."
"Pfft. Superstition. You believe that crap?"
Then the flute sounded.
It wasn't music.
It was wrong. A haunting, broken wail—like wind screaming through the ruins of a burnt-out temple. Ash stirred at the Seer's feet. Then it rose. Not drifting, but drawn—pulled into the air like metal to a magnet.
The ash moved.
Shapes began to form.
A small boy, ragged and thin, collapsed in snow. A girl with violet hair knelt beside him, cradling his face.
Arcose blinked, suddenly cold.
His breath caught. He didn't know why.
The ash shifted again.
Another figure emerged. Tall. A crown of thorns sat on his head, his eyes aflame. Blood dripped from his hands. The boy from before rose—older now. Hard-faced. Cold. A king. No… a tyrant.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Arcose didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Just illusions, he told himself. Just tricks.
But he felt it. Recognition. Something deeper than memory.
The ash danced once more. A final image.
The crowned figure stood atop a mountain of corpses. Fire curled at his feet. Behind him, a girl appeared—face turned away, but familiar. Too familiar.
Then—
Something went wrong.
The Seer faltered.
His flute cracked mid-note. The ash twisted. The crowned figure convulsed—then real fire burst from the illusion, snarling into the crowd.
The Seer's fingers slipped. His body jerked like a puppet caught in strings.
Then—
A tendril of flame snapped forward. Aimed at the front.
At Vivian.
Arcose didn't think.
Something snapped inside him.
Time fractured.
Heat exploded behind his eyes. His vision blurred—then lit up.
Threads—golden and searing—lashed out around his arms like veins of living light. They writhed, weaving a crude shield in front of Vivian just in time.
CRASH.
The flame struck it. Sparks flared in a violent bloom of color. The impact sounded like glass shattering under pressure.
Arcose moved—barely aware of it.
The Weave roared through him, wild and primal. He didn't control it. He was it.
The threads twisted again—then lashed out, entangling the flame like a noose.
It screamed. Then shattered—disintegrating into sparks that vanished on the wind.
Silence.
Then screams.
The crowd scattered in all directions. The Seer collapsed to his knees, laughing softly, his shoulders heaving as though relieved.
"The fire remembers you..." he whispered, blind eyes staring straight at Arcose.
Arcose stood there, gasping. Threads of gold unraveled from his arms, fading into nothing. Burns traced his forearms—red, angry. Nothing fatal. But it stung.
The power had protected him.
And nearly consumed him.
He looked at his hands—confused, shaken. A faint tremor ran through his fingers.
Behind him, He heard a ancient, and raw sounding whisper.