And as dawn bled through the broken walls, the boy who had knelt among ashes did not rise — something else did.
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For a time that could have been minutes or eternities, Kael was nothing more than breath without body. He existed but did not live — invisible, untouchable, a hollow echo of himself, forced to witness the end. The fire had devoured everything he knew, and all he could do was watch from behind the veil his mother had cast around him.
Now that veil dissolved.
The weight of life returned all at once — sudden, brutal. Air rushed into his lungs, ash followed, and he coughed so hard his chest ached. His fingers dug into the scorched ground; he could feel again. The world smelled of rain, burnt herbs, and iron. The spell that had hidden him unraveled completely, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air that faded with the wind.
The jade pendant at his throat flickered once — a dying ember of green light — and went still.
Her protection had done its work. It had ended.
He stayed on his knees, the silence pressing against him like a living thing. The cottage was gone — only blackened stone and splintered beams remained. The forge was a pit of collapsed iron, the roof little more than scattered shards of charcoal. Every inch of the air still carried her scent — mint and smoke and the faint, almost sweet tang of healing roots.
Kael turned his head slowly, as though afraid that movement would erase what little remained. The ground where she had stood was burned to glass. He could almost see her shadow there, faint, as if light itself refused to let go.
He whispered her name, once. "Mother…"
It didn't sound like him. The word broke halfway, too soft to survive.
Something glinted near the ashes. He blinked through the haze, crawled forward, and reached for it.
The dagger lay unmarked by the fire. Its edge was clean, the runes along its spine faintly pulsing with the same green as the jade had before fading. He picked it up carefully, the metal almost humming beneath his touch. He knew this blade — it had hung on the wall above her bed, untouched for years.
Next to it lay something softer: a scarf, half-burnt but still whole enough to recognize. His breath hitched. The one he'd given her on her birthday when he was ten, bought with coins he'd hidden from her so he could surprise her. She'd worn it until the fabric had faded pale.
He lifted it, brushing away the soot. The smell of her clung to it. The tears didn't come — his body felt too hollow for that — but the ache in his throat burned worse than fire.
He tied the scarf around his wrist. The knot came out crooked. His fingers shook.
It didn't matter. The knot held.
And as dawn bled through the broken walls, the boy who had knelt among ashes did not rise — something else did.
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For a time that could have been minutes or eternities, Kael was nothing more than breath without body. He existed but did not live — invisible, untouchable, a hollow echo of himself, forced to witness the end. The fire had devoured everything he knew, and all he could do was watch from behind the veil his mother had cast around him.
Now that veil dissolved.
The weight of life returned all at once — sudden, brutal. Air rushed into his lungs, ash followed, and he coughed so hard his chest ached. His fingers dug into the scorched ground; he could feel again. The world smelled of rain, burnt herbs, and iron. The spell that had hidden him unraveled completely, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air that faded with the wind.
The jade pendant at his throat flickered once — a dying ember of green light — and went still.
Her protection had done its work. It had ended.
He stayed on his knees, the silence pressing against him like a living thing. The cottage was gone — only blackened stone and splintered beams remained. The forge was a pit of collapsed iron, the roof little more than scattered shards of charcoal. Every inch of the air still carried her scent — mint and smoke and the faint, almost sweet tang of healing roots.
Kael turned his head slowly, as though afraid that movement would erase what little remained. The ground where she had stood was burned to glass. He could almost see her shadow there, faint, as if light itself refused to let go.
He whispered her name, once. "Mother…"
It didn't sound like him. The word broke halfway, too soft to survive.
Something glinted near the ashes. He blinked through the haze, crawled forward, and reached for it.
The dagger lay unmarked by the fire. Its edge was clean, the runes along its spine faintly pulsing with the same green as the jade had before fading. He picked it up carefully, the metal almost humming beneath his touch. He knew this blade — it had hung on the wall above her bed, untouched for years.
Next to it lay something softer: a scarf, half-burnt but still whole enough to recognize. His breath hitched. The one he'd given her on her birthday when he was ten, bought with coins he'd hidden from her so he could surprise her. She'd worn it until the fabric had faded pale.
He lifted it, brushing away the soot. The smell of her clung to it. The tears didn't come — his body felt too hollow for that — but the ache in his throat burned worse than
When he looked down again, he noticed something glinting in his other hand — the ring. He hadn't realized he was still clutching it. It was warm, pulsing faintly, almost in rhythm with his heart.
He rolled it between his fingers, uncertain. Its warmth felt like memory. He didn't know what she'd done — what kind of spell she'd carved into it — but he knew it was hers.
He slid it onto his finger. The light steadied.
For a while, he just knelt there. The smoke curled upward, vanishing into sunlight. The wind whispered through the broken walls, carrying no answers.
Then something unfamiliar rippled through him — deep, instinctive, wordless.
His eyes swept the ruins again, tracing every shattered pot, every melted beam.
And in that moment, something primitive stirred inside him.
He wanted to keep it all.
The ash, the ruin, the ground itself.
His mind called it grief, but his body recognized it as something older — a need to protect what had once been his, as though every blackened stone was part of him.
It felt wrong and right at the same time. Territorial. Possessive. Almost animal.
The feeling scared him. He forced himself to stand. The scarf brushed his wrist, grounding him back in the present.
"I can't stay," he murmured.
And then — a rooster called.
The sound split the quiet, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog of thought. It wasn't just a morning call; it felt like the world itself ordering him to move.
His pulse leapt. His muscles tensed. Every nerve woke at once.
He turned toward the forest without another glance. His body moved before his mind could follow.
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The slope dropped steeply, littered with wet stones and roots slick with ash. Each step tore through the silence. Branches clawed at his sleeves, and the dagger flashed between his fingers as he steadied his balance. The jade pendant struck against his chest, faintly warm.
The further he went, the cleaner the air became — less smoke, more pine and earth.
When he finally slowed, the sun had lifted fully above the ridge. He stopped halfway down the mountain on a boulder, its surface slick with dew. From there, the entire valley stretched below him.
Eirn Village looked small in the distance, still waking under the pale morning light. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys, and near the edge, where his house had stood, a cluster of villagers gathered — pointing, gesturing, shouting to one another.
They were only shapes, faceless and far, yet the sight twisted something in his chest.
"They'll never know."
The thought steadied him for an instant — then shattered just as quickly.
But What if they did?
What if the flames and the silence , two missing persons instead of one drew attention, and word spread beyond the valley?
Sooner or later, they would sense it — the lie, the survival, the breath that should have ended.
He wasn't safe. Not here. Not anywhere near this place.
He had to run — far from these mountains, across borders, into lands where even memory lost its way.
He stared at the smoke curling above what had been his home. The ache in his chest was no longer grief. It was focus — sharp, cold, deliberate.
He thought of her voice, steady even when afraid:
"You must not be seen."
"You must not even exist to them."
"Live."
He closed his eyes. "I will," he breathed. "But not as who I was."
The wind shifted, carrying the smell of ash past him. He stepped down from the boulder.
For a moment he hesitated — not out of fear, but instinct. The forest beyond seemed to breathe, vast and old, its shadows deep but familiar.
He took one last look at the valley. His heart thudded once, heavy, steady, certain.
Then he turned and walked into the trees.
The forest accepted him. The air thickened with the scent of moss and loam. The light fractured through branches like shards of gold. His senses sharpened — hearing, smell, even the weight of the wind on his skin. He didn't question it. He couldn't.
He was moving now — not fleeing, but beginning.
Behind him, the smoke of the ruined cottage vanished into the sky. Before him stretched silence, waiting.
And as his footsteps disappeared into the forest's breath, something inside him whispered the truth he wasn't ready to speak:
This was no flight. It was the start of the hunt.