EMBERS OF THE FORSAKEN

The Ember's Price

The memory-den's back room had no windows, no mirrors, and only one door.

James woke to the sound of someone pounding on it.

"Get up." Taylor's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "We have company."

He rolled off the cot, his chest screaming in protest. The bandage had soaked through overnight—not with silver blood, but with something black. Like tar. Like rot. It smelled of burnt metal and old ashes.

"What happened?" he asked.

"The Ember is eating your wound from the inside. Trying to heal it." Taylor tossed him a fresh shirt. "The problem is, it's also eating everything else. Change. Now."

James ripped off the old bandage. The gash from the mercenary's sword was closed—completely healed, no scar, no mark. But the skin around it had turned grey, like dead flesh, and the veins in his chest glowed faintly silver.

Fast healing, the voice whispered. One of many gifts. But gifts have costs, vessel. You already paid for this one.

James couldn't remember what he'd lost this time. His mother's face was already gone. What else had the Ember taken while he slept?

He pulled on the shirt and followed Taylor into the main room.

Elias, the old memory-den owner, stood by the front window, peering through a crack in the boarded-up glass. His hands shook.

"They're here," he whispered. "The Syndicate. A whole crew of them. They're asking about a boy with silver blood."

"How did they find us?" James asked.

Taylor was already strapping on her weapons. "Someone talked. Or someone followed us. Doesn't matter now."

"What about Tommy?"

"He's still in the back room. For now." Taylor grabbed James's arm and pulled him low, away from the window. "Listen to me. The Syndicate doesn't want to kill you. They want to capture you. That gives us an advantage. They'll pull their punches. We won't."

"You want me to fight?"

"I want you to survive." She pressed a knife into his hand—short blade, worn handle. "Use this if you have to. But try not to bleed. Every drop of silver blood you spill is a beacon for every faction in the city."

The front door exploded inward.

Not kicked in. Exploded, like something had hit it from the outside with the force of a battering ram. Wood splinters flew across the room. Elias screamed and dove behind the bar.

Three figures stepped through the smoke.

The first was a woman in her thirties, dressed in Syndicate grey, with a brand on her neck instead of her forearm. Her eyes were hard and tired, and she carried no weapon—just a leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

The other two were muscle. Big, bald, covered in scars. They carried short swords and looked at James like he was a sack of coins.

"James," the woman said. "My name is Mira. I'm not here to hurt you."

Taylor stepped in front of him, sword drawn. "Then why'd you break the door?"

"Because knocking seemed pointless." Mira didn't flinch at Taylor's blade. "I knew you'd try to run. I wanted to make sure you understood that running isn't an option."

"Watch me." Taylor lunged.

The two muscle men moved faster than men their size should have. One blocked Taylor's sword with his forearm—the blade bit into his flesh, but he didn't even grunt. The other circled around, reaching for James.

Use the Ember, the voice said.

"No," James whispered.

They'll take you. Cut you open. Study you like a specimen. Is that what you want?

"No."

Then BURN.

The cold inside James became heat. Not the uncontrolled explosion from the sewers—something smaller, sharper, more focused. It rushed down his arm, into the knife Taylor had given him, and the blade ignited.

Silver fire. Cold and hungry.

The muscle man grabbed James's wrist.

James stabbed him in the chest.

The blade went through his ribs like they were wet paper. The silver fire spread from the wound, crawling across the man's skin, turning his veins to glowing rivers. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Then he collapsed. Dead. His skin grey, his eyes empty, his chest a smoking crater.

The other muscle man froze. Even Taylor stopped fighting, staring at James with something between horror and awe.

Mira just watched. Her expression didn't change.

"Interesting," she said. "You're learning control faster than we anticipated."

James looked at the knife in his hand. The silver fire was gone. The blade was blackened, cracked, useless.

And something inside him was missing.

He couldn't feel anger anymore.

Not the hot flash of rage he'd felt when the mercenary first cut him. Not the cold fury he'd carried through the sewers. Just... nothing. A flat, grey emptiness where his temper used to live.

"What did you take?" he whispered.

Your anger, the voice answered. You had too much of it anyway. Now you're cleaner. Purer. More useful.

"James?" Taylor's voice was distant. "James, look at me."

He looked up. Her face was blurred at the edges, like he was seeing her through water.

"I think I just lost something important," he said.

"You killed a man."

"No. I've killed before? I mean, I think—I don't remember." His hands started shaking. "I don't remember if I've killed anyone before. I don't remember my mother's face. I don't remember getting angry. What else is gone? What else is the Ember taking while I'm not paying attention?"

Mira stepped forward, stepping over the body of her dead soldier.

"This is why you need us," she said. "The Ember is chaotic. Uncontrolled. It takes what it wants, when it wants. But with training—with the right techniques—you can learn to feed it something else. Something that won't destroy who you are."

"There's no such thing," Taylor spat. "I've read the Inquisition's records. Every Ember-touched who ever lived ended up hollow. A shell. A walking weapon with no soul."

"Those records are incomplete." Mira reached into her satchel and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside, a black liquid swirled like trapped smoke. "Memory-wine. But not the diluted garbage they sell in the Shallows. This is pure. Distilled from the dreams of dying men."

"You want him to become an addict?" Taylor laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's your solution?"

"I want him to have a choice." Mira held the vial out to James. "The Ember needs to feed. That's its nature. But it doesn't care what it eats. Memories. Emotions. Personality. Or..." She tapped the vial. "The stolen dreams of people who are already dead. People who don't need them anymore."

James stared at the black liquid.

She's lying, the voice said. The Ember wants you. Your memories. Your self. Nothing else satisfies. Nothing else tastes as sweet.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" James asked.

Mira smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"You don't. But I have something else you want. Something more valuable than answers."

She pulled a second item from her satchel.

A locket. Tarnished silver, shaped like a teardrop. James recognized it immediately.

"That's Tommy's," he said. "He never takes it off."

"He did when my men found him in the back room." Mira tossed the locket onto the floor. It landed with a soft clink. "He's safe. For now. My people are holding him at a location I won't disclose. If you come with me willingly, he won't be harmed. If you resist..." She shrugged. "The Syndicate has many uses for a child with catalyst blood."

Taylor raised her sword. "I'll cut your head off before you take another step."

"You could try." Mira didn't move. "But then you'd never find the boy. And the Syndicate would hunt you both to the ends of the Sundered Realms. Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

James looked at the locket on the floor. Tommy's face flashed in his mind—the gap-toothed smile, the wild curls, the way he always reached for James's hand when he was scared.

That memory was still intact. Still his.

For now.

"What do you actually want?" James asked. "Not the lies. Not the recruitment speech. The truth."

Mira studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, as if confirming something she'd suspected.

"The Syndicate exists to study magic. To understand it. To use it." She tucked the vial back into her satchel. "But we're not like the Inquisition. We don't fear power. We don't worship it. We measure it. And you, James, are the most significant magical event in a hundred years."

"Why?"

"Because you're not just Ember-touched. You're the Ember-touched. The one the prophecies warned about. The one who carries the fragment of the dead god Emberion himself."

The name hit James like a physical blow. Emberion. The god who died in the war a thousand years ago. The one whose death shattered the continent and created the Fracture.

"That's not possible," Taylor said. "The Ember fragments are just echoes. Residual power. They're not actually connected to the gods."

"That's what the Inquisition teaches. It's wrong." Mira's voice was calm, certain. "The fragments are alive. Aware. And they're all waking up. Yours is the first. The strongest. The hungriest."

"Why now?"

"Because the Dying King is stirring. And when he rises, the old war begins again. The Syndicate wants to be on the winning side. That means we need you."

James's head spun. Prophecies. Dead gods. A rising king. It was too much, too fast, too big for a boy who'd spent eighteen years delivering packages for copper coins.

She's telling the truth, the voice said. Partly. She doesn't know everything. No one does. But she knows enough to be dangerous.

"And if I refuse?" James asked.

"Then I walk out that door, and you never see your brother again." Mira turned toward the exit. "You have ten seconds to decide."

She started counting backward from ten.

James looked at Taylor. Her face was a mask, but he could see the calculation behind her eyes. She was weighing odds. Counting enemies. Planning contingencies.

"She'll kill the boy anyway," Taylor said. "Once she has you, she won't need leverage."

"Maybe." Mira didn't stop counting. "But maybe not. I have a daughter, James. She's dying of Withering sickness. The Ember's power might be able to save her. That's why I'm here. That's why I volunteered for this mission. Not for the Syndicate. For her."

Five. Four.

"Tommy is innocent," James said. "He's not part of this."

Three. Two.

"Neither is my daughter." Mira stopped counting. "But here we are."

The silence stretched between them.

James made his choice.

"I'll go with you," he said. "But Taylor comes too. And you move Tommy to a secure location—somewhere I can verify he's safe. If I find out you've hurt him, I'll burn your entire organization to ash. Ember or no Ember."

Mira smiled again. This time, it almost looked genuine.

"Deal."

---

The Syndicate's safe house was nothing like the abandoned memory-den.

It was a mansion in the Gears—three stories of polished stone and magical lighting, with armed guards at every door and wards carved into every windowsill. James had never seen wealth like this. The carpets alone probably cost more than everything he'd ever owned.

Mira led them to a sitting room on the second floor. Crystal glasses. Silk curtains. A fire crackling in a marble hearth.

"Sit," she said. "We'll talk."

Taylor remained standing, her hand on her sword hilt. James sat on the edge of a velvet sofa, feeling out of place and deeply aware that he was a prisoner wearing nicer clothes than he deserved.

"Where's Tommy?" he asked.

"Two blocks away. In a townhouse with a full guard detail. He's eating breakfast. He's scared, but he's unharmed." Mira poured herself a glass of water from a crystal decanter. "You can verify that later. First, we need to discuss your training."

"You said you could teach me to feed the Ember something other than my memories."

"I said I could give you a choice. The memory-wine isn't a perfect solution. It slows the Ember's hunger, but it doesn't stop it. You'll still lose pieces of yourself over time. Just... more slowly."

"How slowly?"

"Years instead of months, if you're careful." Mira set down her glass. "But there's another option. One the Syndicate has been researching for decades."

"What option?"

She walked to a bookshelf and pulled down a heavy leather tome. The cover was blank, but the pages inside were filled with diagrams and notes in multiple languages.

"The Ember can be transferred," she said. "From one vessel to another. It's never been done successfully—every attempt has killed the recipient. But the theory is sound. If we could find a way to move the fragment from your blood to something else—an object, a construct, a willing sacrifice—you could be free."

"And the person who receives it?"

"They'd carry the burden instead of you." Mira's face was unreadable. "That's the trade. One life for another."

Taylor stepped forward. "You want him to give the Ember to your dying daughter."

"I want my daughter to live. Yes." Mira didn't deny it. "But I'm also a scientist. The transfer would be a breakthrough. It would change everything we know about magic, about the fragments, about the nature of the gods themselves."

"You're insane," Taylor said.

"Maybe. But I'm also the only person in Ravensbrook who can help James keep his memories long enough to find another solution." Mira closed the book and returned it to the shelf. "You don't have to decide today. You don't have to decide this week. But you should know that the option exists."

James stared into the fire. The flames danced and flickered, and for a moment, he thought he saw faces in them. Screaming faces. Burning faces.

The dead god's victims.

She's lying about the transfer, the voice said. It's not possible. The Ember is bound to your bloodline. It will die when you die. There's no other way.

"How do I know you're not just saying all this to keep me compliant?" James asked.

Mira walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Sunlight streamed into the room—pale and watery, filtered through the Gears' clockwork haze.

"Because I'm going to prove it," she said. "Tonight, I'll take you to the Memory Market. You'll see what the Syndicate is truly capable of. And then you'll make your choice."

"What's at the Memory Market?"

Mira turned to face him. Her eyes were the same grey as Taylor's, but softer. More tired.

"The only person who's ever successfully controlled an Ember fragment without losing herself," she said. "She's been waiting for you for a long time, James. Longer than you've been alive."

"Who is she?"

Mira smiled.

"Your grandmother."