Smoke.

  Roasting meat.

  Rot.

  Bandits lounged around a campfire—filthy, drunk.

  Laughter, flasks passed around, spits sizzling in the dirt.

  Behind them: cages.

  Full.

  A rasping wheeze.

  A hand reached out—punched back.

  Someone whispered a prayer—rock to the temple.

  This wasn’t torture.

  It was amusement.

  As long as the merchandise didn’t break.

  Not before it was sold.

  Crack of branches. Hoofbeats.

  “Boss?!” one of them called, wiping his mouth.

  A rider emerged from the trees.

  Draped in black, face covered with a cloth.

  A scar from ear to collarbone.

  Eyes sharp as blades.

  “Think I came out here for the smell?” he asked, voice dry as dust.

  “We just… uh, the stink—” one giggled, pinching his nose.

  The rider dismounted.

  Wordless. He circled the fire, approached a cage, peered inside.

  “What is this?”

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  “Escape… we got most of them back. Had to punish them. They’re expendable,” one muttered.

  The scarred man grabbed him by the collar.

  “Expendable? You thinking with your ass?”

  “T-The lord ordered—”

  “Exactly. If he doesn’t get what he wants, the Church will burn you first.”

  Silence.

  “No guards? Meat reeking across the forest? And you idiots drunk off your asses?”

  “We thought the riot was over. They’re half-dead anyway…”

  “The girl?”

  “Separated. Untouched. As ordered.”

  “Good. At dawn—we ride to the city. No screwups. No scratches.”

  Pause.

  “But… Tom’s dead. Burned. All the way.”

  The scarred man went still.

  “Who?”

  “No idea. But… flame. Like a spell.”

  “Magic?”

  He slowly raised his head.

  “Don’t take your eyes off her.

  If she disappears—you all do.”

  He mounted again. Vanished into the dark.

  Silence.

  “…Shit. I’d rather deal with wolves than the Lord.”

  ***

  The Forest

  Dark.

  Howls behind them.

  Sam could barely stand.

  Breathing ragged. Every muscle screamed.

  “Cliffs!” Kyle pointed. “There might be shelter!”

  They crashed through the underbrush.

  A narrow gap between rocks—like the throat of a beast.

  “Here!”

  Inside: damp air, choking stillness.

  “Kyle?” Sam gasped.

  “I’m here.”

  He remembered: Magic is imagination.

  Sam raised a hand.

  “Candle.”

  A warm flame flared into life.

  Soft. Gentle.

  Like home.

  Shadows danced on the cave wall.

  “This will do,” Sam whispered, sinking onto stone.

  Kyle stared like he’d just seen a monster.

  “What… was that?”

  “I imagined it.”

  “No book? No seal?”

  Sam nodded.

  Kyle stepped back.

  Face pale. Voice unsteady.

  “You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one can.

  Magic isn’t created—it’s read. From sacred scrolls.

  Given by priests. Or held by nobles.

  Everything else… is heresy.”

  Sam stayed quiet.

  “There was a guy once. Down south. A farmer.

  They say he made it rain—just wished it.

  A week later they found him. Throat slit. In a ditch.”

  “Real or not—doesn’t matter.

  As long as people are afraid.”

  Sam clenched his fists. The flame flickered.

  “They don’t care if you did it…

  Only that no one tries.”

  Silence.

  Sam stared into the fire.

  He could use magic.

  No book. No priest.

  That made him an enemy—already.

  “You’re not like us,” Kyle whispered.

  “But thanks… for not leaving me.”

  “No need,” Sam rasped. “I just… couldn’t.”

  He lay down. Rested his head against the rock.

  Closed his eyes.

  The fire in his mind didn’t fade.

  ***

  A Dream

  “Sam, we’ll be back soon. A couple days. Be strong.”

  “Of course, Mom.”

  Warmth. A smile.

  Footsteps.

  “Sammy!”

  “Vic!”

  Laughter. He lifted his little sister. She giggled.

  “I wanted to say goodbye!” she pouted.

  “Martha, look,” John said. “They’re like twins.”

  “Well, the looks are mine,” Martha smiled.

  “But the lip-biting? That’s all you.”

  Laughter. Sunlight.

  The car door closed.

  Their last trip.

  ***

  Sam opened his eyes.

  Stone ceiling. Dancing shadows.

  And deep in the cave…

  Someone was watching.

  Silent. Still.

  Alive.

  Or not.

  No spells. No scrolls. Just instinct and flame.

  Sam shouldn’t be able to do what he did. And that means one thing:

  He doesn’t belong.

  This chapter is slower—but it sets a foundation. A world where power is feared, and the wrong spark gets you killed.

  What do you think: would you hide your gift… or use it anyway?

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