The forest south of Lorand was never meant to be crossed alone. Not even by hunters. Not even in daylight.
And yet, Irin walked through it with nothing but a cloak, a burned hand, and a power he didn't understand. His steps were silent, but inside, the noise was deafening. The voice from the Ashstone had not spoken again. It had left him with a mark and an ache — as if something had been carved into his soul with fire.
His wrist still glowed faintly. Covered now by ragged cloth but pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He didn't know where he was going; it was just that the road south led to the outer towns — maybe even to the Mage Academies. To the people who destroyed his home. To answers.
By noon, his legs ached, and his stomach growled, but he didn't stop. The memory of smoke and blood was still too fresh. His body moved like it had forgotten how to rest.
Then he heard it — laughter. Male. Harsh.
He dropped low, crawling through the underbrush. Up ahead, in a small clearing, three men sat by a dying fire. Dirty. Armed. One of them kicked at something — no, someone — curled on the ground.
A girl.
She was young. Maybe Irin's age. Her hands were bound, and her face was bruised.
"Get up," one of the men snapped. "Try to run again, and you'll regret it."
The second man chuckled. "She's more useful when she's quiet."
The third didn't speak. He just sharpened his blade, slow and steady.
Irin's breath caught in his throat. His body froze — not from fear, but from heat.
It was back. That feeling. The flame beneath his skin.
He stepped into the clearing.
They didn't see him at first. Not until he spoke.
"Let her go."
Three heads turned.
One man blinked. Then laughed. "Look at this. A traveler? Or just another fool?"
"I said," Irin repeated, his voice steadier than he expected, "let her go."
The man with the knife stood. "No cloak, no sword, no chance."
He walked toward Irin, blade raised.
Irin didn't move.
The bandit reached him. Smirked. "You made a mistake."
He grabbed Irin by the arm.
And then screamed.
Fire erupted from Irin's skin. Not flame — not visible. But heat. Pure, burning magic.
The man dropped, clutching his chest, mouth open in a silent cry. His skin blistered. His eyes turned to ash. He collapsed without a sound.
The others scrambled back. "Mage! He's a mage!"
The third man ran.
The second reached for his weapon — but it melted in his hand before he could lift it.
Irin stood still. Breathing heavy. The symbol on his wrist burned white.
"I told you," he whispered. "Let her go."
The last man dropped to his knees, trembling. "Please… I didn't mean to… I didn't touch her…"
Irin didn't answer. He walked to the girl. She flinched.
He reached into his pocket, pulled a small knife — dull, but enough — and cut the ropes from her hands.
She stared at him. Pale. Speechless.
He offered a hand.
She hesitated. Then, I took it.
They walked in silence for hours.
The girl said her name was Lera. Her village had been taken by raiders weeks ago. She had run. They caught her near the river.
She asked who he was.
He said nothing.
She asked what he was again.
He looked at her. "I don't know yet."
When they stopped to rest near a broken stone arch — another ruin swallowed by trees — Irin touched his wrist again. The mark still burned.
He stared into the ashes of a small fire. Not his. Old. Someone had camped there long before.
Beneath the ash, something glimmered — faint and red.
He dug carefully.
Another stone. Smaller than the Ashstone but marked with the same lines. The same energy.
And with it, a whisper.
"You are not alone."