We were at the back of the house, in a packed-dirt courtyard that now served as our makeshift training ground. The morning sun had not yet reached its full strength, but the air already felt heavy with a tension that hung over Valenreach. Obrem stood before me, his posture solid as a rock, holding a wooden staff that seemed weightless in his calloused hands.
It was a new day, and we knew that time was slipping through our fingers like sand. The spies and the capable villagers kept a close watch on every movement of the merchants in the village, but here, within the walls of the mansion, the focus was different: survival. My mind drifted back to the night before, when the reality of our situation had been presented to the few volunteers we had.
"These were the ones who wanted to fight for this cause, sir," Obrem had said while we were inside the mansion. Liss was serving them tea with trembling hands, yet she tried to remain composed. I looked at the faces before me; I saw familiar ones, men and women whose hardened hands had helped dig every meter of the canal that now fed this soil.
"Thank you all," I began, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes on me. "I know my approval is low among you, and I perfectly understand why. I was an absent prince for a long time. But now, I need us to unite. I made a deal with the merchants in town, but I made a gross mistake. Apparently, they are conducting a silent siege of our territory and plan to sabotage everything we have built."
A murmur of indignation ran through the group. They weren't fighting for a prince; they were fighting for the bread they pulled from this land. Now, in the courtyard, Obrem broke the silence.
"Your mind is your greatest weapon, Your Highness, but a dead prince does not sign parchments," Obrem said, stepping forward. "The Earth you use is passive. It sustains and protects. But to drive out wolves, you need something that consumes. You need to understand Fire."
"Close your eyes," he commanded, circling me. "Seek beyond the earth that sustains you. Seek the wrath, the anger, the frustration... the desire to protect what is important. Feel your heart pulse. Dive into the tangle of threads; the fire will emerge through the spark. Watch."
Obrem extended his staff, and suddenly, it burst into flames. I stared at the fire in his hands. It was not erratic or wild; it was like a domesticated creature that knew exactly where it should be. Unlike Lygni's Web, which pulsed with a rhythmic and almost musical energy, Obrem's flames possessed surgical precision. They danced over the wood without consuming a single fiber, defying the logic of physics I knew from my previous life. The fire walked from one side of the staff to the other, yet it did not burn it.
"Understand, Your Highness," Obrem continued, the orange glow reflecting in his single good eye. "Fire is the purest state of will. Earth accepts what is given, but Fire demands. It demands space, it demands fuel, and above all, it demands control. If you do not govern it, it will govern you. Close your eyes and seek that fuel within yourself."
I closed my eyes, as he ordered. I tried to dive again into that sea of invisible threads that made up the Web, but this time I didn't look for the cold stability of the ground. I looked for the heat.
I remembered the hospital. The rhythmic, irritating sound of the machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic that seemed to soak into my very soul, and the helpless fury I felt watching the years pass while I was trapped in a bed—a prisoner of my own body. I remembered the clinical, hopeless faces of the doctors and compared them to the insolence of those merchants who now trod on my territory as if they owned it.
The anger began as a small ember deep in my chest, a latent point of heat that grew until it became a blaze in my being. I was no longer that weak man. I would no longer be a victim of others' circumstances. I stretched out my hand and imagined, just as I had with the earth, the threads of the Web molding around my fingers. But they weren't cold or solid; they vibrated, frantic. I remembered what Lygni had told me once, a phrase that now echoed like a decree: "Will without strength is just a wish."
I didn't want to just wish for Valenreach's protection. I wanted the power to guarantee it. I want fire in my hand now.
"Burn!" I said, opening my eyes abruptly.
A small ball of fire appeared, floating unstable above the palm of my hand. It emitted a timid, flickering heat, like a candle struggling against a gale.
"Is this the size of your will?" Obrem questioned, his voice as sharp as steel. He didn't seem the least bit impressed. "A flame that would barely warm a mug of tea? Again! If you face those men with that firefly's glow, they will laugh while they slit your throat."
His words hit me like a physical blow. I closed my eyes again. I sought the fear. The paralyzing fear of disappointing the few people who gave me a vote of confidence. The fear of seeing everything I built with so much sweat reduced to nothing. In my mind, I projected the worst-case scenario: Valenreach's crops in ashes, the canal clogged with corpses, and my people enchained because of my childish mistake on that parchment.
I joined my hands in front of me, feeling the Web vibrate between my palms. I imagined the flames as the very contempt of those who wanted to see me dead. I imagined the heat of the furnace I kept inside me during the hospital years finally finding a way out. I pointed my hands forward, the air around me distorting from the sudden heat.
"Extinguish!" I shouted, opening my eyes.
A cannon of flames roared from my palms. It was a column of incandescent energy that seemed to want to outshine the sun. The recoil nearly threw me back; my feet dug furrows into the dirt to keep me standing. The sound was like a dragon's roar.
The flames struck a dry tree at the edge of the courtyard. The impact was not just thermal; it was kinetic. The tree was consumed instantly, turned into embers and soot before the branches could even fall. Absolute silence followed. I gasped, feeling my body burn as if I had swallowed molten metal. My hands trembled, my skin was red, but I had never felt more alive.
Obrem looked at what remained of the tree and then at me. For the first time, I saw a flash of respect in his eyes.
"Better," he said, firm. "But the fire that burns the tree can also burn the one who lit it. Control, Your Highness. If you lose control in combat, it can turn against you. I see your proficiency with fire is excellent; with your will, you can create much more than that."
Before I could respond, the mansion gate was struck with force. One of the spies entered, his face pale.
"Sir... the noise... the flames..." he stammered. "The merchants' guards are coming. They saw the flash. They are on their way to the mansion now!"
I looked at Obrem, who was assuming a steady stance. My body was burning; my hands still felt as if they were made of fire.
"Let them come," I said.