Fire. Always fire.
I woke to the sound of crackling wood and screams carried on the wind. My lungs burned before my eyes opened, and when they did, the world was red. The city was dying. Flames licked the black sky like tongues of demons, devouring spires, homes, and the bones of the innocent. Ash fell like snow on my skin—hot, relentless, a mockery of winter.
I pushed myself up from the rubble, coughing, the taste of smoke bitter on my tongue. My fingers brushed against something hard: the edge of a blade, still warm from battle. My blade. Its steel shimmered with heat, reflecting the orange inferno around me.
Then I felt it—the pulse beneath my skin. The familiar, hated rhythm. My mask.
I reached up and touched my face. It was still there, fused to me like a lover that would never let go. The porcelain surface was cracked, veins of molten gold crawling across it like a living thing. It whispered as it burned. Not words. Not yet. Just the sound of hunger.
“Not now,” I hissed under my breath, forcing the fire back with sheer will. My curse always woke when I bled, when I killed, when I tried to live. And last night—last night I had done all three.
A voice pierced the chaos, sharp as steel:
“Uriel!”
I turned, and for a heartbeat, hope flared—before dying in the cold shadow of memory. It wasn’t Kaelen. It would never be Kaelen, not anymore.
Instead, it was a soldier—bloodied, staggering toward me through the smoke. His armor bore the crest of Veyra’s banner: the golden serpent, coiled and ready to strike. His eyes were wide with terror.
“They’re coming,” he gasped. “The Black Blades—they’ve taken the eastern gate—”
His words cut short as an arrow punched through his throat. He collapsed at my feet, choking on his own blood. And behind him, stepping through the fire like a phantom of war, came the enemy.
Five of them. The Black Blades. Kaelen’s assassins.
Their faces were hidden behind iron masks—cruel, sharp, emotionless. Their swords were slick with the lives they had ended. And in their leader’s hand burned a sigil—a mark of Kaelen’s command.
I rose to meet them, fingers tightening around my blade.
First person. My voice. My rage.
Kaelen sent them for me. He wants me to run. Wants me to hide like a coward while he burns the world in my name. But not today. Today, the fire belongs to me.
The first one lunged. I sidestepped, the motion as fluid as breath, and drove my sword into his ribs. The steel hissed as it met flesh. I pulled free and turned the strike into a downward slash, splitting the next assassin’s mask in two.
The others closed in. Blades flashed like lightning. I ducked, rolled, let instinct take the lead. My mask burned hotter with each kill, and for a moment—I let it. Flames crawled along my arms, licking my blade, searing the air. The third man hesitated when he saw my eyes glow through the cracks. That hesitation cost him his life.
When the last assassin fell, the street was painted in blood and embers. My chest heaved, my breath ragged, the fire inside screaming for more. I stared down at my hands, at the flames curling around my fingers, and whispered:
“Not yet.”
Because if I let it take me now, there would be nothing left of Uriel. Nothing left of the man I swore I’d be.
The sound of steel boots on stone broke my thoughts. More soldiers. Not Kaelen’s this time—Veyra’s.
“Uriel!” A voice rang clear above the chaos. Female. Commanding. Familiar.
Through the smoke came Veyra herself, her golden armor gleaming beneath soot and ash, her black hair braided for war. Her blade was already drawn, dripping crimson. Her eyes locked on me—eyes like storm clouds, fierce and unyielding.
“You’re still alive,” she said, her voice a strange mix of relief and fury.
I gave a bitter laugh. “Barely.”
She studied me for a long, silent moment. Her gaze lingered on the cracks of fire spiderwebbing across my mask. Then she spoke, low and sharp:
“Kaelen’s here.”
The world tilted. The flames inside me roared. My fingers tightened around my blade until the leather grip creaked.
Kaelen.
The name was a wound that never healed.
“Where?” My voice was cold, even to my own ears.
“At the Citadel,” Veyra said. “He’s tearing through what’s left of the council. If we don’t move now—”
“We move,” I cut in, already striding toward the heart of the burning city.
Veyra fell into step beside me. Neither of us spoke. The fire spoke for us.
And as we walked, the mask whispered again. Louder this time. Words. Promises. Temptations.
Let me burn. Let me end him. Let me end them all.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the voice into silence. Because if I gave in, Kaelen wouldn’t be the only one who burned tonight.
But deep down, I knew the truth. The mask would win eventually. It always did.