Chapter Four
1066 Words
Chapter Four – The Weight of Embers
The forest had a way of swallowing sound.
Arin woke to the muted thrum of morning, the kind where even the wind seemed to hold its breath. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The smell of earth and moss, the texture of the cold ground beneath him — it all felt too far from home to be real. Then the memories came rushing back: the flames, his father’s last breath, the figure cloaked in shadow, and the power that had torn through him like a storm.
He sat up, the blanket of last night’s dew clinging to his clothes. Beside him, the embers of his small fire were nearly gone, glowing faintly in the damp. He leaned forward and stirred them with a stick, coaxing a final breath of heat before it faded completely.
It struck him then — how fragile fire was. Last night it had been his only comfort, its warmth pushing back the darkness, but now it was a few scattered sparks, barely holding on.
Just like me, he thought grimly.
Arin rose, stretching sore muscles. His pack felt heavier than it had the day before, though he knew it hadn’t changed. The weight wasn’t from supplies — it was the weight of leaving. The weight of knowing there was no turning back.
The forest path stretched ahead, twisting between towering trunks that looked like ancient pillars. Somewhere beyond these woods lay answers — or at least someone who could give him a reason for why this had happened. His father had spoken once, in hushed tones, about the Order of the Dawn — keepers of old knowledge, scattered across the world. If anyone could explain what the Conception was, what this power in him meant, it would be them.
But that meant days, maybe weeks, of travel through lands he barely knew. And that meant surviving.
He adjusted the straps of his pack and set out again.
---
By midday, the forest had begun to change. The trees grew thicker here, their roots rising like the backs of sleeping beasts. Strange sounds echoed — calls from creatures Arin couldn’t name. More than once he caught himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see that cloaked figure from the night of the attack.
But the figure never came.
Instead, what came was silence.
It wasn’t the natural quiet of the woods — it was a hollow, oppressive stillness, as though the entire forest had gone still to watch him. Arin slowed, his hand instinctively brushing the knife at his belt.
Something moved ahead.
At first it looked like shadow pooling unnaturally between the trees. Then the shadow rose, stretching into a tall, thin shape. Another one appeared behind it, and then another, until there were three.
Nightborn.
Arin’s chest tightened. He had seen them before — once, as a child, when one had wandered too close to the village and the hunters had driven it away with fire. They were creatures of the dark, twisted things that were neither flesh nor spirit.
The nearest one tilted its head, as if curious. Then it hissed.
Arin ran.
The forest became a blur of green and brown. He leapt over roots, ducked under branches, his breath ragged. Behind him, the Nightborn gave chase, their movements unnaturally smooth, almost gliding over the ground.
A root caught his foot and he stumbled, barely catching himself on a tree. His heart hammered in his ears. He had to fight — he knew he couldn’t outrun them forever.
The knife in his hand felt too small, too fragile. But then, deep in his chest, he felt it again — the same heat that had burst through him the night of the attack.
The fire.
It was there, coiled like a sleeping beast, waiting.
Arin closed his eyes, gripping the knife tighter. He didn’t know how to call it, didn’t know what words to speak — but he focused on the feeling, the burning.
When he opened his eyes, the Nightborn were almost upon him.
The fire answered.
It tore through him, blazing from his chest into his arms. The knife flared with sudden light — not flame exactly, but something brighter, sharper. He swung, and the nearest Nightborn shrieked as the blade cut through its shadowy form like smoke.
The others hesitated, hissing, then melted back into the trees.
Arin fell to his knees, breathing hard. The knife’s glow faded, leaving only the trembling boy who held it.
He had done it. Somehow, he had called the fire — but it had taken everything from him. His limbs felt heavy, his head light. He couldn’t stay here.
---
He found shelter that night in the hollow of a fallen tree. The moonlight spilled across the forest floor, silver and cold.
Arin turned the knife over in his hands. Its edge was scorched, as though it had truly burned, but his hand was unmarked.
What are you doing to me? he thought, staring at the faint glow still pulsing under his skin.
For the first time since the attack, he allowed himself to cry. Not just for his father, but for the boy he had been before all of this began. The boy who had believed the world was safe, that his future was set.
The tears didn’t last long. Exhaustion claimed him quickly, pulling him into a dreamless sleep.
But somewhere, far away, something stirred.
---
In the dark halls of a ruined fortress, the cloaked figure knelt before a blackened altar.
“The boy has awakened,” the figure whispered. Its voice was like the rustle of dead leaves.
From the shadows beyond the altar came a reply, a voice deep and terrible.
“Good. The Conception draws near. He must be guided.”
The figure bowed lower, its face hidden beneath its hood.
“And if he resists?”
A long silence. Then the voice rumbled, low and final:
“Then he must be broken.”
---
Arin woke before dawn, the forest still cloaked in mist. The fire inside him was quiet again, but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way.
He rose, slinging his pack over his shoulders.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the trees and the hills, the answers waited.
And so did the ones who wanted to use him.
He set his jaw and started walking.
- Writer
