Chapter 3
The whole damn place is on fire, thick black smoke engulfing the clean air. People run and scream, and many have flames burning their clothes. The heat only adds to the panic, and from what I can gather, it’s not a fire caused by a knocked-over candle.
It’s a rumbling inferno, as if the homes were deliberately set ablaze by magic. Could that be true? No, it has to be my paranoia to assume this is a fire mage’s doing.
Or would the Council truly send a fire mage after me?
“Kathleen!” I cry out, scanning the terrified faces for the one I care about most.
I’ve lost her among the chaos. I had been hot on her heels, but as soon as someone spotted me, they begged me to heal a face with leaking blisters. Of course, I took care of them. How could I know when I’ve known everyone here for a decade?
I remained vigilant about any dangers that could appear while doing so, feeling rushed and also like I was not doing enough.
If only I followed Kathleen right as she took off… where did she go? To her grandmother’s, maybe? I can’t lose her. I can’t lose another person in my life.
Fuck.
“What happened?” I ask a middle-aged woman named Maryanne when I come upon her as she sits against a tree with singed leaves. Swollen, red skin lines her body. I immediately hover my hands over her shin that’s gashed and burned. My heart’s pounding so hard it nearly fractures my rib cage, my voice trembling from a whirlwind of emotions and memories that these flames mercilessly stir. It’s hard to steady myself.
“Ransacked!” she cries, wincing when blue light emits from my palm to heal her, contrasting the golden glow of death around us. “We need to get everyone out,” she pants. “I sent the kids with Todd and came back to try and get the family gold… I-I needed a bit of a rest.” Her chest rises and falls with labored breathing. “Oh Jane, what if it’s mercenaries? Who else would do this?”
“Let’s not stick around to find out,” I manage to say. She has no idea how haunting that idea is to me.
Burns are a tricky thing to heal, and scarring will most definitely occur. Sending minimal regenerative energy into her skin is the most I can provide, or else I’ll exhaust myself. “I need to keep going, but you get out of this smoke, okay? Can you walk?”
She gives an unconvincing nod. “Yes. I got the gold already,” she replies, patting at a deep pocket in her dress. “Just tripped and hurt myself.”
“Don’t stop until someone else is with you,” I order, helping her to her feet.
Once Maryanne is on her way—even if stumbling—I wipe my sweaty palms on my leather pants, raggedly breathing in the smoke. I resort to squinting with how bright the fire burns. Every so often I check my skin to ensure it isn’t bubbling. My only ailment seems to be stinging eyes. I’m not sure how I’m not burned, but I won’t question it now.
All the while, the fires rumble like a thousand horse hooves circling the city.
Every time I try to peel away and seek out Kathleen, someone else needs me. My gut screams to take care of myself, but now that I’m here among them, how can I ignore wounds that would easily lead to infection unless I intervened? They’re probably suffering because of me, and they don’t even know it.
I have a limit, however, and before long I’m only good for placing damp towels on burned skin, my vision tunneling after each use of my magic.
A few hard sleepers straggle out of their homes—some clinging to their pets—while others utilize coal carts to ferry their household goods out of the burning center. The rest have fled.
What the hells is happening? There’s so much damage, and yet I haven’t seen a single perpetrator.
Does the attacker plan to kill everyone and make me watch? Hoping I’ll talk in order to spare the remaining villagers?
Fear twists into anger—I don’t fucking know what to do.
Focus on finding Kathleen.
I make my way to Main Street, where Kathleen’s grandmother runs her apothecary. The village is moderately sized, with only four dirt streets running off of this central one.
Stumbling through the flaming carnage, I place my hands over my eyes when a roof caves in from a nearby building. Embers spit out like splashing water as someone screams nearby.
I stumble away, glancing back when I spot Kathleen by the apothecary. Scorch marks mar her dress. The acrid smell of smoke and swirling ash fills the air as she supports her grandmother while they slowly move down the street. Her dress is tinged and she’s helping her grandmother through the street.
Quickening my pace, my lungs screaming for better air—I pause, panting with my hair in my eyes. Someone on a horse strides around the postal building, riding right onto Main Street.
I’m at the end of Main and Kathleen is on the opposite side. I stand there, my eyes watering as the smoke and ash burns them dry. The horseman rides by one of our neighbors, slicing the man’s head clean off, the body slowly slumping to the ground as the head rolls.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter through a hard cough.
Kathleen is right in his path, shielding her grandmother.
On the off chance they’re here for me... I scream as loud as I can, “HERE!”
The horseman looks in my direction, yanking his reins to charge right at me, striding past Kathleen.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I’m exhausted, sick from the smoke, overheated, and surely suffering from some kind of burns I haven’t discovered yet. Despite all that’s slowing me down, I run for it, searching for a building to dash into. As I round the village’s community structure, I stumble over a charred, dead man, adrenaline and survival urging me forward.
To my horror, one of the blazing buildings shoots its fire high into the dark sky, swirling above the village in completely unnatural ways—a fire mage’s magic; there’s no doubt anymore. Then again, fire mages don’t attack villages, unless at the hands of someone with a lot of money or power.
In our world, it ranks by cutthroats, mercenaries, pirates, warlords, and then the Zenith that triumph over them all.
This isn’t the work of a cutthroat, that much is clear. Just how high up did this order come?
I survey the area for a black skull mask—just in case—as only the Zenith bear those masks, and they are notorious for being the only ones with enough influence to hire fire mages.
Unless this person is from overseas... from the Order of Ash?
Finally risking it, I glance over my shoulder to see the horseman is gaining on me, his ugly face plain as day. Which means no mask to cover it. So not a Zenith? Or is the Zenith nearby, and this is a lackey?
More importantly, what direction should I run?
I don’t know how to outrun a horse, especially with my magic draining so rapidly. The end of this road means running right into the woods, and I’m better at running through elaborate city streets than a forest.
I choose not to chance what I cannot see or maneuver, especially if more are hiding in there.
Nearly tripping when I stop, I clumsily pivot on my tired feet to face him, ready to roll right toward his horse—out of the man’s sword range—and bolt toward the other end of the village. Maybe even slice at the leg of the poor animal if I can manage it so it crashes.
If I have to run, let it at least be toward somewhere I know.
It‘s a risky fucking move, but as long as I have some kind of a hand after this, I can heal whatever carnage I may suffer—
Behind the horse rider is a site that numbs me so juxtaposed to the incinerated village. A giant man rides on an ebony steed, wearing a black skull mask with unique, golden designs.
And the way he smoothly throws his dagger absolutely matches the skill of a Zenith, striking the rider in front of me square in his back. The man slumps off his horse and hits the dirt with a hard thud; the beast running past me.
If I hadn’t been so shocked that it was a bona fide Zenith, I may have tried to grab the horse as it ran by me.
But I don’t move.
It’s been too long since I truly had to think on my feet like this. A Zenith should never be out here. Then again, neither should I... which means if he’s here, he has to be after me. I wince when his horse stomps on the fallen rider, blood spattering onto fur and dirt roads.
Dead tired, I force myself to run for it again. This time, even risking the woods. I can’t consider my earlier stunt on this one. A part of me knows it’s futile to even try and escape, but it feels important to make the effort.
The stomping of heavy horse hooves resonates in the ground underneath me. I glance over my shoulder to see he’s right on me, towering over like a shadow of death, his vivid, pale eyes visible through the holes of his black, expressionless mask. I cry out as the masked man grabs me while he’s still on his damn horse, hoisting me up by the underside of my arm.
Panic drowns out any drive for retaliation as I cling onto anything stable when the horse trots faster, my head on this man’s thigh. His leather is a deep red, something about the color unnerving me.
Only rich men have armor like this.
Holy shit. They really sent a Zenith after me.
Once I realize I’m not dead or injured, I’m about to fight back in any way that I can to make him drop me, only for him to release me on his own once we’re outside of the major carnage.
“Rope her!” the Zenith shouts with a deep, raspy voice that’s slightly muffled through the mask.
For a minute, I think he says rape and I’m about to unleash every ounce of fury I have, death or not. But then someone is already on me and pinning me to the ground while a woman with rope approaches like I’m a wild hog they caught.
“Get the fuck off of me!” I yell, kicking the man who holds me down square in the face like I have countless times before, aiming to break it.
“Son of a fucking bitch!” He looks like he might punch me, but I refuse to flinch; I’m ready for it.
Blood gushes down his lips. He doesn’t reach for his face, however, and continues to restrain me as crimson drips onto my clothes. He handles pain well, it seems. I stare at him long enough to see he’s got one blue eye, the other brown, and both brimming with immense hatred. Deep scars on his face remind me of the caliber of these attackers.
The one on the black horse rides by, jumping down while his steed slows its trot. Seeing the mask deeply haunts my soul, subduing me more than any rope could.
“Knock her out,” the Zenith commands.
“Like hell—”
I can’t tell who strikes me, but in mere moments, pain lances through my skull, my vision fading as I’m out like a wet candle wick.