Desecration of a saint

I felt a connection—not to the woman who had just helped me, but to something else. Something deeper and far more primal. The mark etched into my skin began to grow warmer, the heat spreading outward like tendrils of sunlight breaking through a dense fog. Then it turned hot—so hot it should have burned me, should have left blisters and charred flesh in its wake. But it didn't hurt. Instead, the heat soothed me, cradling me in a strange comfort. I felt a sense of belonging.

Without thinking, my free arm lifted, the motion not my own but guided by some force I didn't fully understand. My hand extended toward one of the nearby fires. As my gaze locked onto the flames, I felt them—not as an observer, but as something connected. They weren't just fire anymore. They were alive, writhing under the oppressive weight of the shadows that surrounded us. They twisted and coiled, desperate and hungry, crying out in a way that I seemed able to hear. Their plea wasn't in words but primal: a need for food and for freedom.

That need resonated deep within me, stirring something. I gave in to the feeling, letting it guide me. The flames responded instantly, surging upward with a ferocity that made the air hum and crackle. They burned brighter, hotter, their light and heat pushing back the shadows that had crept so close. The fire was no longer contained by the pit. It spilled over, reaching out like a living thing, devouring anything in its path with a hunger that mirrored my own.

And then it turned toward me.

The flames slithered like serpents, coiling and weaving as they drew closer. Their movements were hypnotic, almost tender. I didn't flinch or retreat. Instead, I opened my arms wide, inviting them in. The fire answered eagerly, wrapping itself around me like a hug from a long-lost and deeply missed family member. The heat seeped into my skin, not as something foreign but as if it had always been a part of me, waiting to return.

I felt the flames settle on my back, stretching outward and shifting into shape. Wings. Wings of pure, radiant flame unfurled behind me, each movement fluid and alive. Embers dripped from their edges like molten gold, trailing in the air before dissolving into nothingness. The wings moved with me, attuned to my every thought and motion as though they were extensions of my own body. Their presence felt natural, as if I had always been meant to have them.

Then I felt the fire crawl upward, trailing along my spine before circling around my head. It hovered there, forming a faint halo of flame. It would have concealed the scars from my surgery, had they still been there.

The light of the flames began to shift, softening from a deep, flickering orange to a warm, almost yellowish white. It bathed the area in a glow that seemed to push back not just the darkness, but the dread that clung to the air. My hammer began to glow, too. The metal warmed in my grip, its dull surface catching the light and reflecting it outward.

The shadows recoiled, no longer daring to creep closer. They hovered at the edges of the light, writhing as though unsure whether to flee or attack. For the first time since entering the Dire Forest, they grew silent.

The guards stared at me, their wide eyes filled with awe—and in one, something more. The younger one, the one who had tried to help me, made a motion with his hands that looked like some kind of triangular shape. The contractors, save for the woman, stopped their chanting altogether. Their gazes fixed on me. They didn't look at me as hated prey anymore. Their expressions shifted to something almost akin to recognition, as though they had a better idea of what I was.

Lord Thorne's reaction was different. His eyes gleamed, bright and hungry. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not one of joy, but of satisfaction. He looked at me as though I were a treasure chest, freshly unearthed and filled to the brim with riches.

I felt more powerful than I had ever felt in my life, like I could burn the world with a thought. But then my hammer began to change. The wood turned darker and darker, while the head glowed brightly and began to soften and melt. At the same time, exhaustion washed over me, a wave so intense it felt like I had just done the most grueling thing imaginable. It was worse than my first fight. Every muscle screamed, my mind frayed at the edges.

"You need to stop this… whatever you did. His body won't be able to handle this much longer," Lord Thorne said, his voice sharp as he turned to address the woman.

She had been watching me the whole time, a playful smile lingering on her lips. For a moment, she didn't move, as if considering his words. Then, finally, she walked over to me. Her hands grasped my face gently, and she leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

The moment her lips touched my skin, all my strength fled from me. The flames extinguished like a candle snuffed out, leaving only a faint warmth in their wake. My wings of fire vanished, and I dropped to my knees, utterly drained. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. The firelight returned to normal, flickering like it always had. The shadows receded but didn't disappear completely, lingering at the edge of perception.

I turned my head, weakly, to where Chadwick's twisted body had stood. There was nothing left—just a hole in the ground and scattered chunks of unrecognizable meat. The world around me was silent. It stayed that way until dawn.