Irin didn't sleep that night.
The mark on his wrist pulsed like a second heartbeat, steady and unnatural. The new stone — smaller, colder, sharper than the Ashstone — lay beside him, humming softly like it was breathing. Its symbols weren't just different. They were hostile. Rigid lines, angular edges, carved deep as if meant to cut, not glow. Not warm. Not alive. This stone didn't call to him. It warned.
He didn't know why he had taken it. Maybe because it felt connected. Or maybe because, deep down, he knew the first stone wasn't the only one meant for him.
Lera slept with her back pressed against a twisted tree, arms tucked tightly around herself like a child trying to stay invisible. Her breaths were shallow and too quick. Even in sleep, she was afraid. She'd barely spoken since the fire.
Irin didn't blame her. What must he look like to her now? A stranger walking through cursed woods with magic in his veins and death in his shadow.
Before the sun could rise, the whisper returned. "Do not lose it."
His eyes snapped open. The stone glowed dim red. Not warm, not furious — calculating. Like something watching him from the inside. "The mark is only the beginning."
Irin's fingers curled around his wrist. He swallowed hard.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.
Silence.
"Why me?"
More silence.
Then, cold and final, the words came again. "You chose fire. Fire does not forget."
He wanted to ask more, but the presence was already gone.
They left before first light touched the treetops. Neither of them said anything. Irin didn't mention the voice, or the stone. Lera didn't ask.
She walked a few steps behind him, careful not to get too close, but not far enough to be left behind. She followed like someone who had learned that asking questions only brought pain.
By midday, the dense forest began to thin. Sunlight cut through the gaps, and the old road reappeared beneath their feet, faded but still guiding. It forked in two directions.
To the south — toward river towns, trade, noise, and people.To the west — toward jagged hills and ruins… and beyond them, the city of mages.
Lera stared at the southern road. "We should go that way," she said quietly. "There might be guards. Townsfolk. Food. Protection."
"Protection," Irin repeated, staring down the western path. "From what?"
She didn't answer right away. "From whatever's chasing you."
The words stung. Not because she was wrong, but because she said you, not us.
The mark on his wrist suddenly burned. Not painfully, but sharply — like it wanted to be heard.It pulled him west.
"Magic doesn't care where I go," he said finally. "But it's pulling me that way."
Lera hesitated. "Then I'll follow."
He looked at her. She didn't flinch.
By evening, the woods turned strange again. The trees here leaned at odd angles, their roots exposed and twisted. Stones jutted from the ground like broken teeth. The air was colder, but the wind didn't blow. It was the kind of silence that pressed in around you.
They found the remnants of a watchtower — half-swallowed by vines, its base scorched and blackened. Someone had burned this place long ago. The stones still held the memory of fire.
They set up camp by the tower's edge. Lera collected wood, her eyes flicking over her shoulder every few minutes. Irin knelt by the pit and touched the stone ring. Sparks danced at his fingertips, then bloomed into a low, steady flame.
She jumped, but didn't say anything. She only watched him from across the fire, her expression unreadable.
Later, while she slept again, Irin pulled the second stone from his bag.Its surface pulsed once… and shifted. Not in color — in shape. As if the stone was made of something more than stone.Images slammed into his mind.
A city bathed in fire, a tower shattering, its top crashing down like a falling star, a figure wreathed in smoke, eyes like twin voids, and a voice. "Ashborn."
His hand trembled, and the stone slipped from his fingers. He gasped and pressed a palm to his chest, heart pounding like a drum.
Lera stirred. "What did you see?" she murmured sleepily.
"I don't know," Irin said. But the truth lodged in his throat. I'm afraid it's real.
That night, Irin dreamed. He stood in a massive hall of fire. Pillars of molten rock rose around him. Statues lined the walls, broken and crumbling, their faces lost to time. Flames licked at the ceiling, but nothing burned.
At the far end stood a figure wrapped in smoke, motionless beneath a blazing arch.
"You are not ready," it said, its voice like coals breaking apart.
"I don't care," Irin said, stepping forward. "Tell me who I am. What I am."
The figure didn't move. But behind it, the flames twisted and roared.
A massive eye opened in the fire — lidless, eternal, watching him without blinking. And then — he woke. To a sound. Branches snapping. Not from wind. From weight. Footsteps. Measured. Not fast. Not many. Just one.
But each step was heavy. Controlled. Deliberate.
Irin's pulse quickened. He sat up slowly, eyes scanning the trees.
Lera still slept, unaware.
Whatever was out there — it hadn't come by mistake. It had followed. He was no longer alone. Something was watching him. Something that remembered magic. And hated it.