An Inheritance of Fire

Selerim let out a breath as he gazed at the small ring of fire in front of him. It was small, not even wide enough to accommodate his hand, but creating it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The reason for that was simple: fire was hungry. Vicious. It wanted to consume the empty space at its center to grow. That was a law of nature; something very hard to subvert.

The ring’s pale red edge wavered— and then collapsed in on itself, eagerly devouring its own core. The fiery waves folded over one another, only to wink out a moment later.

It had been two days since their skirmish— if it could even be called that— with the Reavers, and Selerim’s control had grown since then. And that was far from the only change.

His blood was more fire than liquid now; even when his cut first bled, it appeared as a wisp of fire. Selerim found that surprisingly easy to accept. The Reaver he Feasted on had been made of flame. That was part of why he hunted it.

He considered the matter of his identity, but that, too, proved surprisingly easy to accept. Selerim always took pride in his heritage; that had yet to change.

And there were other things to worry about.

Like his family.

That thought made guilt bloom, but it wilted soon after. He’d already accepted this selfish part of him, and more importantly, so had his family. And it helped that, in a way, he was out here because of them.

But in some ways, he dreaded returning. Freedom to think about the future just left room for the past to sneak up.

Selerim cut his palm again, interrupting that train of thought. He closed his eyes, reforming the ring and letting his thoughts wander as the firelight flashed against his lids. It was easier to think, this far away from the bright and noise of the city.

What am I supposed to do?

That was the single, burning question that he’d asked himself every day since that day. His life between then and now was frantic, fraught with pain, desperation, anger, rage, and grief— and with hardly a breath between them.

Now that he had a chance to breathe, and a chance to choose, Selerim found himself at a loss. Even he knew this mercenary work was just a temporary measure. An attempt to regain balance before losing it permanently. He forced his breath to steady.

He would follow his family. That required no further thought.

But they would be living in the human city for good. He couldn’t think a year into the future, never mind twenty or thirty.

What is it that’s bothering me?

The sensation was hard to put into words. There was something about recent events that bothered him. It differed from the grandiose events that littered the past year; reaching the elven kingdom, witnessing Viria’s trial, slaying Vanis.

It was something smaller, something that accumulated over time.

Times are changing.

Selerim grimaced as Veile’s words echoed through his mind, dredged up by the thinnest thread of connection.

Cress was gone. The letter was sent. That was the end of it…

… or should have been. Even without Veile, deep down, Selerim knew the destruction of his home was part of something greater. It was the only logical explanation.

But the smaller things bothered him, too. The doctor’s interest in Gwyn, how willingly he’d helped Selerim, Worrick’s attitude… he was a person of influence. There was no questioning that, but he seemed too well-connected, too well-accustomed to… whatever these activities could be called.

I’m missing something.

Before Selerim could think on it further, something flicked across his shoulder. He opened his eyes instantly, dousing the fire and stooping to retrieve his mask. Turning, he saw a small light approaching. It took him a moment to recognize the person holding it. Tasha. The youngest of the group.

Her pace slowed to a halt as the light enveloped his feet. “I thought you had a torch. Where did it go?”

“I threw it. I heard you approaching.”

“Hm.” She seemed unconvinced, but offered him the object in her other hand. A plate of food. “Here. From Rase.”

“Ah.” Selerim took it from her. “Thank you.”

Tasha watched him set it atop his pack. He could feel her curiosity, but said nothing. Of the other four, he was most wary of her. Not for skill or fighting prowess, but the understanding in her red eyes.

“You don’t need to be scared of them,” she suddenly said. “Rase and Naru are good. And Suli… Suli is new. But she’s just acting. She’s kind.”

“… I’m not scared of them.”

Tasha scowled. “Stop acting tough.”

Selerim fell silent.

“You don’t need to eat with us. But you should come talk with us. After you eat.”

“Why?”

“They’re curious about you. So am I. You answered Suli’s questions. So you’ll answer ours. And you’re curious about us, aren’t you?”

That was hard to deny. That encounter was hardly threatening— composed of just small Reavers— but they’d fought well. Not as well as his friends, but well. Rase was fast, and Naru was strong.

“And if I’m not?”

She shrugged—

“Then don’t. No one can make you talk.”

— and then walked off. Her small light shone like a beacon in the dark.

Selerim removed his mask and retrieved the plate. It was another simple meal; a slab of meat with a dab of sauce on the side; but just as before, the scent of spices made his mouth water.

Pulling his dagger from his waist, Selerim cut a piece of it. Nyx lighted on his hand as he raised it, snatching the morsel from his fingers before disappearing. He grinned, taking a seat.

He ate with his dagger, cutting pieces off and stabbing them before dipping the meat in the sauce. The meat was tender, and the sauce was rich and savory, mixing the with the tangy spices. He’d hesitated at first, but this sort of kindness was hard to turn down. Rase was an excellent cook.

Selerim scoured his hands clean with water from his canteen. Normally he would save it, but Suli carried enough for the entire journey. He looked back down at the plate. Not returning it would be rude.

And he was curious about them.

“Thank you.”

Suli watched as Ember returned his plate.

“Did you enjoy?” Rase asked.

The masked man nodded.

“I’m glad to hear that. “Tasha here was just recounting what she said to you. I apologize. She—”

“It’s fine,” Ember interrupted. “She’s right,” He admitted. “I’m curious.”

Rase laughed. “I’m not surprised. People will be people.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been in our company for the past while,” he answered easily. “It’s only natural.”

He fell silent.

“You must know that we’re also curious about you,” Rase continued, “but you clearly value privacy. Only ask questions that you’re willing to answer.”

“… Alright.”

“And so?”

“Where did you learn to fight?”

That question was clearly directed at Rase and Naru. They, as well as Ember, were the only ones who had truly acted before.

But Rase turned to Tasha, who nodded her head once.

Then to Suli.

“Suli?”

It took her a moment to understand his meaning. She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Naru and I were taught by our families,” Rase answered. “The rest is experience. The qualifications to be a mercenary aren’t known for being rigorous.”

“You weren’t in the war?”

“Not so fast,” Rase chided. “You’ll have to answer in kind, first.”

“Ah.” Ember fell silent for a moment. “I was mentored by someone.”

“They must be an excellent teacher.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “They were.”

Suli knew Rase understood that immediately. The silence lingered for a moment until he broke it.

“We were. Mercenaries were conscripted. It wasn’t so bad. We stayed in our groups and used our own weapons.”

“My village was destroyed,” Tasha answered. Her voice was cold and flat. “And the obelisk broke. Lots of people died.” Suli saw her hand creep up to the Well around her neck. She insisted on using it; a keepsake. A painful one.

“I wasn’t in the war,” Suli answered after a brief silence. “I was too young… and too unsuited. If it had gone any further, I would have been conscripted.”

Ember nodded as if he’d expected all of that. “I felt its effects,” he said after a pause, “but nothing more.”

Rase nodded.

“Where are you from?” Tasha interjected.

“Far away.”

Suli nodded silently at that. It gave credence to Tasha’s theory— that he was someone from a faraway village. They often had their own customs.

“Where?”

“I don’t want to answer that.”

Tasha frowned, but said nothing as Ember strode away.

“Tasha,” Rase scolded her. “You can’t do that. Give him time, else all your efforts will be for naught.”

She fell silent.

“What do you think of him?”

It took Suli a moment to realize the question was directed at her. “Favorable. He’s someone I can work with.”

“I concur. And his skills seem… more than adequate.”

She nodded, remembering how he’d quickly he’d slain half the Reavers. They were small ones, hardly a real threat, but still.

Naru grunted his agreement.

“Then there’s no complaints?”

“None.”

Ilen hated school.

He knew it was a privilege. His father paid an obscene amount of money for him to attend, and it offered an easy path to the future, but he hated it anyways.

He’d realized long ago that his father was oblivious to the problems that came with his enrollment. That came after the realization that his father had also forced his attendance. That, obviously, led to a hostile environment.

And he looked like an elf.

That was painfully obvious. His ears were shorter, his skin and hair darker, but that mattered little.

Technically there was nothing wrong with him attending, but of course, people rarely gave it that much thought.

He hated that.

It was made worse by the fact that his father was gone so often now. But he knew that his father was working hard for them. That was a complicated feeling.

One that drove him mad.

So it wasn’t particularly surprising that he’d snapped. He’d expected it, really. You could only bottle things up for so long.

And he had been bottling it up for a long time.

So it wasn’t surprising that he’d snapped. He’d punched the other boy— what was his name— Corian?— and he’d fallen. Ilen followed him down. And then brought his arm up to strike…

Before something tore through his body. Not physically, or at least, he didn’t think so. He felt it, but not really. It hurt, but not really. It was more like a tugging sensation.

He’d seen the other boy’s eyes widen. That was dumb luck. He’d seen it reflected in his eyes— the weapon on his hand.

A huge spike of wood encasing his hand.

He’d diverted at the last possible moment, stabbing his shoulder instead of his face. There was a scream, then his hand fell down into the gushing wound. The warm, wet blood coated his skin instantly— and then he’d blacked out.

The scenes replayed one by one in Ilen’s mind.

The blood.

The teacher whisking him away while carrying Corian on a stretcher. The questions that came afterwards. Some asked by the teacher. Others by… someone else.

He couldn’t remember.

After that, more questions. He’d been put in cuffs, then moved, then the cuffs had been taken off, and then…

He’d been brought here.

Ilen’s mind snapped back to reality, finally free of the fever dream he’d been subject to. Fever dream?

His shoulder was still covered in blood.

Not a dream.

Ilen sighed, taking in his surroundings. He was seated in a chair. In an office. Books lined the right wall, and a map covered the left. The back wall was more window than wall; and before it, a man sat behind a desk.

He was a striking man, with golden hair and golden eyes, but it took Ilen a moment to recognize him. He’d brought him here.

No.

Something before that.

Something to do with his father.

“Um…”

The man looked up at that. “Are you well now? You seemed to be in shock.”

Ilen felt his face redden. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need for apologies.”

“Why…” he hesitated, but only for a moment. The man clearly meant him no harm. “Why am I here?”

“Because you almost killed someone,” the golden-eyed man answered. “Did you forget?”

Ilen squeezed his eyes shut as the look of shock and pain on Corian’s face burned against his eyes. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t.”

“Good. I understand how you feel, but you need to restrain yourself. This is a one-time courtesy.”

“… Because you work with my father?”

“Your father works for,” he stressed the word, “me. But yes. It will take some time to clear this matter. I thought it pertinent to move you here.”

What was he supposed to say to that?

“Thank you.” He stuttered over the words.

“You’re welcome.”

Ilen hesitated. “What… what happened to me?”

That seemed to surprise the man. “Your father didn’t teach you?”

“…No,” he answered after a pause. “That’s never happened before.”

“Interesting.” Despite that statement, the man seemed completely uninterested. “Your father will be here soon. This will be left up to his discretion.”

Ilen wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

He loved his father, but trust was another matter entirely.