Volume 3 — Chapter 1: Ashes Don't Cry
The boy ran until the world narrowed to breath and pain.
His sandals slapped against the dirt path, each step uneven, each stumble nearly sending him face-first into the ground. Smoke scratched at his throat long before he saw the fire. It rolled through the trees in heavy waves, stinking of burnt wood and something darker—something the boy's mind refused to name.
"No… no…" His voice cracked as he ran. "My village…"
The forest thinned, trees pulling apart like a curtain being ripped open.
The village was gone.
Flames climbed what remained of the huts, devouring straw roofs and wooden walls with greedy orange mouths. Black smoke clawed at the sky. The ground was littered with bodies—men he recognized, men who had laughed with his mother, men who had taught him how to set traps and sharpen knives. They lay twisted and still, eyes open, staring at nothing.
The boy stopped breathing.
Then he screamed.
He ran forward, dodging falling embers, tripping over broken beams. Somewhere ahead, women cried. Children wailed. Chains rattled.
"Stop!" he shouted, voice breaking apart. "Please—don't take them!"
A group of men stood near the center of the village, rough armor strapped over their bodies, weapons stained dark. They dragged women and children toward a cart reinforced with iron bars and chains. A child slipped from one man's grip and was yanked back by the hair.
One of the men turned.
His smile was slow. Ugly.
"Well, well," the leader said, rolling the words on his tongue. "What do we have here?"
The boy froze.
The man stepped closer, blade gleaming in the firelight. "A little rat," he continued, amused, "thinking he can stop us."
The boy's hands shook. His chest burned. His eyes stung with tears he didn't remember shedding.
"Please," he whispered. "That's my mom. That's my—"
The world tilted.
Something inside him cracked.
Pain surged behind his eyes—hot, sharp, unbearable. His vision flooded with yellow light, so bright it swallowed the fire, the smoke, the screams. The ground fell away beneath his feet. He didn't jump. He didn't move.
He floated.
Gasps rippled through the traders.
"Stage 2!" one of them shouted, stumbling back. "He's a Stage 2 elemental!"
A larger man pushed forward, broad shoulders stretching his armor. He grinned, cracking his knuckles as if this were a game.
"Let me handle this freak."
He lunged.
The boy didn't think.
Lightning answered.
The world exploded into sound and light. A sharp crack split the air as electricity ripped outward from the boy's body. The burly man seized mid-step, eyes bulging, mouth opening in a silent scream before he collapsed—dead before he hit the ground.
The traders didn't even have time to run.
The boy vanished.
Not disappeared—moved.
He became lightning.
Bolts tore through the air, slashing across flesh, biting into armor, ripping screams from throats before cutting them short. One man raised his weapon; his arm was gone an instant later. Another tried to flee; electricity coiled around his legs and dragged him screaming into the dirt.
The village echoed with thunder.
By the time it stopped, the traders lay scattered across the ground, bodies smoking, eyes glassy. The cart stood abandoned, chains clinking softly in the aftermath.
The boy stood in the center of it all.
Blood dripped from his mouth where his teeth had bitten through his lip. His body trembled violently, lightning crawling across his skin like it didn't know where to go anymore.
"Mom…" he whispered.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed.
The fire kept burning.
When the villagers crept out from hiding, the world felt wrong—too quiet after the screams. They gathered slowly, staring at the ruined bodies of the traders, then at the boy lying motionless in the ash.
"He… he saved us," someone whispered.
"A boy…" another murmured. "Caisy's child… saved us."
Their eyes shifted.
"Where is Caisy?"
No one answered.
They didn't need to.
Her body lay near the edge of the village, crushed beneath a fallen beam. Her eyes were closed, face peaceful in a way that didn't belong in a place like this.
The villagers looked back at the boy.
He was breathing. Barely.
Fear crept in where relief had been.
"What if he wakes up?" someone said quietly. "What if he sees her?"
The village elder stepped forward, his face carved from worry and suspicion. He stared down at the boy like one would stare at a wild animal caught in a trap.
"Don't be fooled," the elder said. "Yes, he saved us. But what happens next?"
Silence.
"What happens when he loses control again?" the elder pressed. "What happens when his grief turns that power on us?"
A woman hugged her child tighter.
The elder's voice hardened. "The safest option is to end it."
Murmurs spread.
"How?" someone asked.
The elder didn't hesitate.
"Burn it."
They worked quickly, hands shaking as they dragged wood together near the ruins. No one looked directly at the boy as they moved him. His face was pale, streaked with ash and blood, lashes resting against his cheeks like he was asleep.