The gate to the hamlet stood open wide, warm light spilling from lanterns hung along the entrance. Their soft glow illuminated the dirt path, casting long, golden shadows into the night.

  Cale and Tiana stepped inside.

  The air buzzed with celebration. Music danced through the air—two lutes and a panpipe blending in joyful harmony. Villagers spun in circles, laughing and clapping as they held hands and danced around the open square.

  Cale’s eyes roamed over the scene, taking it all in—the flickering torchlight, the smiling faces, the scent of roasted vegetables and sweet pastries carried on the breeze.

  Then his gaze found Jason.

  The old man was approaching quickly, pushing through the small crowd. As he reached them, he bowed deeply before Tiana, taking her hand with reverence and pressing his lips gently to her knuckles.

  "Thank you for coming, Lady Tiana," he said, his voice steady but low with respect. He kept his gaze on the ground as if unsure he was worthy to meet her eyes.

  Tiana offered a graceful nod, her expression serene. "It’s good to see you and your people smiling again."

  Around them, the music had faded. The dancers slowed to a halt, turning to look at the newcomers with wide, curious eyes. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

  Jason straightened slowly, then turned to Cale. He extended a hand, eyes earnest.

  Cale reached out and took it.

  The old man’s grip was firm—clearly trying to show strength—but Cale could barely feel it. Jason’s brow furrowed as his forearm tensed, muscles contracting with effort.

  Cale blinked, puzzled.

  Should I be squeezing harder? he thought.

  He gently increased his grip.

  Jason inhaled sharply, a flicker of pain escaping through clenched teeth.

  "Ah—quite the strength you have, young man," Jason said, releasing his hand with a forced chuckle.

  Cale stepped back slightly, embarrassed. "Sorry... I didn’t mean to—"

  "No need to apologize," Jason said, regaining his composure. He gave a respectful bow. "It’s an honor to welcome the two of you. You’ve saved not only the hamlet, but the lives and hopes of everyone here."

  Tiana’s expression softened. "Your gratitude is appreciated."

  Jason nodded. "Still, you’re our honored guests tonight. Please—come, eat, dance if you wish. This night is yours as much as ours."

  Around them, the villagers slowly resumed their celebration. Music returned, tentative at first, then growing louder. Children darted between legs, chasing fireflies. Laughter rose again into the night.

  Tiana and Cale found a quiet corner near the edge of the celebration, where the lanternlight faded into gentle shadow. A few makeshift chairs—barrels with cushions tied to them—offered a place to rest away from the crowd.

  The sound of music, the scent of fresh bread, the laughter of children—it all soaked into his senses like sunlight through leaves.

  Tiana watched him for a moment, then asked softly, "What do you think of this place?"

  Cale turned to her, a wistful smile on his lips. "It reminds me of home," he said. "There were celebrations like this during the solstice, the harvest, and a few little local holidays. The whole village would come together, just like this. Music, dancing, food..."

  His voice trailed off.

  The smile faded.

  His gaze dropped to the ground, and a shadow passed over his face.

  He thought of his parents. Of their laughter. Of his mother calling him to dance, his father joking about how clumsy he’d be.

  He hadn’t seen them in so long.

  A lump rose in his throat.

  Tiana reached over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding.

  "Let’s dance," she said, her voice light with mischief but filled with care.

  Cale blinked. "I... I’d love to, but I don’t know how."

  A hint of embarrassment colored his cheeks.

  "My mother and father offered to teach me so many times," he admitted. "But I was always too embarrassed. Too many eyes. It made my heart race."

  Tiana smiled, her emerald eyes twinkling. "Then it’s time to learn. I’ll teach you."

  She stood and extended her hand.

  "But," she added, a playful grin curving her lips, "if you step on my shoes, I promise to punish you."

  Cale laughed nervously but took her hand.

  The two stepped into the fringes of the dance circle. The music wasn’t fast—just a sweet, steady rhythm carried by strings and flute.

  Tiana placed one of Cale’s hands on her waist and took his other in her own.

  "Follow my lead," she said.

  At first, Cale stumbled.

  His foot caught on hers, and she winced, casting him a mock glare. "That’s one."

  He chuckled, flustered. "Sorry."

  Another misstep. Then another. But Tiana was patient. She guided him gently, whispering the beat to him.

  "One, two. One, two. Step, turn."

  Slowly, it began to click.

  Cale found the rhythm. His movements smoothed. He stopped thinking about the eyes on him. He stopped worrying about his feet.

  And he smiled.

  Then he laughed.

  The joy crept up on him like sunlight after rain. He laughed as he spun her, laughed when she pulled him closer, laughed because for a moment, it felt like he was home again.

  Tiana smiled with him.

  And under the silvery light of the moon, surrounded by music and fireflies, they danced.

  The music softened around them, distant and dreamy. The stars blinked in the sky above like watchful eyes, and the fireflies drifted lazily between flickering lanterns.

  Tiana leaned closer.

  Her head gently came to rest on Cale’s shoulder.

  Cale froze.

  His heart slammed against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. Her scent filled his lungs and muddled his thoughts. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

  Her voice came soft, low, and teasing against his ear.

  "Have you ever had a lover, Cale?"

  His breath caught.

  For a moment, his mind went blank.

  Then he thought of Mirelle. Her bright green eyes. The laughter they shared, the way she sometimes looked at him like she was waiting for him to say something more. But they had never crossed that line. Not truly.

  "No," he said quietly. "I didn’t."

  Tiana slowly lifted her head, just enough for their eyes to meet. Her emerald gaze held his, calm and knowing. Her lips curled in the faintest smile.

  "Not even a kiss?"

  Cale swallowed hard. "No."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "How curious," she whispered. "You move with such fire in battle. But here... you’re all gentle."

  Her fingers slid lightly up his arm, resting near his collarbone.

  "Do you always hold back, Cale?"

  His lips parted as if to answer, but no words came.

  Her smile deepened, not mockingly, but with something softer—something that shimmered between mischief and affection.

  "Or is it just with me?"

  Cale looked away, cheeks flushed. "You’re... different."

  "Mmm," she hummed, tilting her head slightly. "Am I?"

  He nodded, still not looking at her. "You make it hard to think."

  Tiana’s gaze softened. The playfulness didn’t leave her eyes, but it mellowed—tempered now by something more sincere.

  She leaned in again, her lips just beside his ear.

  "Good."

  She let the word linger there, like the brush of silk.

  Cale shivered.

  His heart had no armor for this kind of battle.

  And she knew it.

  Their moment was shattered.

  A sudden gust of wind, unnatural and sharp, stirred the trees. Then came the loud, echoing hoo of Archimedes swooping down through the firelight. His wings spread wide, casting shadows under him.

  He landed before them, eyes glowing with urgent, soul-deep blue light.

  Tiana locked eyes with him, her smile fading instantly.

  Her expression hardened.

  "We have to go," she whispered. She grabbed Cale’s hand without waiting for a response and pulled him with her, cutting through the crowd.

  Cale didn’t question. He felt the tension in her grip. The way her gaze darted with sharp purpose.

  They found Jason near the edge of the square, leaning forward on a bench, a cup of ale in his hand, laughing at something an old friend had said.

  His smile faltered when he saw Tiana’s face.

  "What’s the matter?" he asked, rising halfway to meet them.

  "A group is approaching," she said sharply. "Fast. Too fast."

  Jason’s expression darkened instantly.

  Then it came.

  A scream—raw, primal—ripped through the air.

  The music stopped. Conversations died. A few gasps followed, then silence.

  Everyone turned toward the hamlet’s gate.

  And there—stumbling forward through the firelit haze—was a man.

  He was aflame.

  His entire body engulfed in fire, he stumbled forward, screaming like a wounded animal. His flesh crackled and peeled, blackening and curling as if trying to escape the bones beneath. His eyes had already melted. His mouth was open in a final, endless scream.

  He took three more steps before collapsing, twitching violently once before going still.

  The fire consumed him.

  The smell hit next—flesh and fat and hair, burning together into something vile. Villagers gagged. Children cried. A few people began to flee.

  And from the shadows beyond the gate... came figures.

  Ten of them.

  They moved in a line, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. Their crimson robes, ragged and burned at the edges, swayed in the wind. Symbols seared into their flesh glowed faintly. Their arms were bare, scorched and blistered, like they had willingly placed themselves into fire.

  At their center walked a man.

  Or something that used to be a man.

  Hairless. Browless. His skin sagged in places, glossy and distorted like melted wax. Patches of red muscle pulsed underneath. His jaw looked partially fused to his neck, lips barely parting as he raised one blistered hand.

  A single flame bloomed in his palm.

  It was not warm.

  It was hungry.

  Around the square, the lanterns flared violently. The flames surged, twisted—bending toward him as if desperate to obey. Shadows stretched unnaturally, wrapping around homes and walls.

  He spoke.

  His voice was cracked and low, yet it carried like a bell through silence.

  "You have been chosen."

  The cultists stopped behind him, forming a perfect half-circle.

  "The Grand Flame calls. You will be purified. You will burn. And from your ashes—glory shall rise."

  The villagers panicked.

  Screams. Stumbling. Mothers grabbing children. But they couldn’t run fast enough.

  The man lifted his hand.

  He hurled the fire.

  It spun through the air, an infernal spiral of death, aiming straight for a woman too frozen to move.

  She didn’t even scream.

  But Cale was already moving.

  Time slowed.

  He let go of everything—fear, hesitation, thought—and surged forward. His arm shifted mid-leap, flesh peeling away to reveal swirling metal, pulsing and alive.

  Dark steel erupted from his skin, curving forward in a sweeping motion. A shield—massive, jagged, and seething with inner heat.

  The flame struck.

  It howled, like a living thing denied its prey. It wrapped around his shield in wild tongues of fire, roaring and clawing, but it did not pass.

  Cale stood firm, grounded like an ancient tree.

  Behind him, the woman collapsed in sobs—but she was untouched.

  Cale’s blue-silver eyes blazed.

  The metal around Cale began to tremble.

  Spoons, forks, lantern hooks, blacksmith tools, cooking pots, nails, belt buckles—even door hinges—rattled in place, some ripping free and pulling toward him as if drawn by an invisible force.

  His skin shifted. Dark steel surged across his body like a rising tide. Plates snapped into place. The armor slithered over his chest, down his arms and legs, wrapping him in a suit of living steel. Only his face remained bare, glowing faintly with inner light.

  His right arm reshaped into a long blade—dark and jagged, the edge serrated like a predator’s tooth.

  He stepped forward and pointed his weapon at the group.

  The cultists hesitated, their heads turning toward their leader—the man with flesh like melted wax and hollow, lifeless eyes.

  The man walked forward, slow and calm, his gaze drifting lazily over the crowd.

  "A metal mage? In a place like this?" he asked, a faint note of surprise in his voice. Then he smiled, a sickly grin. "Doesn’t matter. Tonight, the Flame will embrace you all."

  He ignited.

  Flames erupted from his body, curling around him in a mimicry of Cale’s armor. The fire didn’t burn him—it became him. It crowned his head, danced across his limbs, wrapped his body in a living inferno.

  Cale’s helmet snapped into place, sealing his head in steel. Only the burning blue of his eyes remained visible.

  They moved.

  Nine of them.

  They drew weapons—blackened swords, hooked daggers, bows carved from charred bone. Arrows ignited as they were drawn. Flames wrapped around their limbs and trailed in their wake as they charged into the hamlet like wolves unleashed.

  The first attacker lunged with dual daggers. Cale sidestepped and brought his blade arm up in a swift arc. Instead of cutting, the blade reshaped—blunting at the last second—striking with crushing force into the man's side. The cultist was launched backward, crashing into a wall and falling unconscious.

  Another cultist fired arrows. Cale turned, raising his arm. The arrows struck and bounced off harmlessly, not even leaving a scratch.

  Tiana stepped behind him, her hands aglow with green light. Her voice rose in a sharp chant. Vines burst from the earth—grasping two cultists mid-charge, yanking them down and wrapping around their limbs to pin them without harm.

  Flames erupted across the village.

  Roofs caught fire. Smoke blackened the sky. Children screamed, and parents pulled them toward safety. Jason drew a sword and shouted orders, leading villagers through back alleys.

  Cale moved like a living storm.

  He swept through the cultists with blinding speed. His blade arm shifted as needed—flattening into a shield, curling into a hook, reshaping into blunt edges. He struck joints, knocked weapons free, slammed attackers off their feet. Every movement was precise—disabling, not killing.

  One cultist tried to grapple him—Cale caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and swept his legs out, slamming him to the ground with controlled force.

  The cult leader raised both arms.

  Flames spiraled from his chest and arms, forming a wheel of fire behind him. With a guttural cry, he flung his hands forward.

  A barrage of fire erupted from his body—a fan of flame daggers, each burning bright with hunger, hissed through the air in deadly arcs.

  Cale didn’t flinch.

  He slammed his blade into the earth. The metal in the soil screamed in response, rising with unnatural speed into a crescent barrier before him. Tools, fragments, and raw ore leapt from the ground and fused into place, forming a glowing shield of dark steel.

  The fire daggers struck.

  Each impact rang like thunder, sparks cascading in waves. The metal barrier buckled but held firm as fire licked around the edges, trying to reach beyond.

  When the smoke cleared—

  Cale emerged.

  His armor glowed with molten edges, steam rising from the steel like breath from a beast.

  "Focus on him," Tiana said from behind, her voice steady but edged with fire. "I’ll take care of his followers."

  Cale gave a single nod, eyes locked on the leader. He stepped forward, the ground trembling beneath his armored boots.

  The cult leader tilted his head, his hollow gaze almost amused. "You think steel can outlast fire?" he hissed. "You will melt like all the others."

  He swept his arm forward, conjuring a whip of flame that cracked through the air. It struck toward Cale like lightning.

  But Cale was faster.

  He raised his arm—his shield blooming from his wrist just in time. The whip coiled around it, hissing, melting the outer layer. But the core held. Cale pulled, yanking the flame-user off balance, then charged.

  Their clash was thunder and inferno.

  The cult leader met him with a wall of searing heat, hands bursting with fire that he shaped into twin blades. He slashed. Cale blocked—his own blade shifting to match, then twisting into a hook that caught the man’s arm and flung him backward.

  The fire cultist landed on his feet, skidding in a trail of embers. He snarled, spinning his arms in a circle. A ring of fire burst around him, pulsing outward.

  Cale braced and let the wave pass, his armor glowing red-hot. Smoke rose, but he kept moving.

  He darted in, faster than the man expected. His arm reshaped into a hammer, and he swung low, slamming into the cultist’s leg. Bone cracked. The man shouted, stumbling.

  But he didn’t fall.

  The fire around him surged. He thrust both hands forward and launched a torrent of flame like a cannon blast.

  Cale brought up his forearms. His armor shifted, the metal weaving into a cone to deflect the blast. Fire roared around him—but he held firm.

  Then he struck.

  His blade formed again—this time thinner, sharper. He slashed low, then high, forcing the cultist back, step by step.

  The fire-wielder’s movements grew frantic, more wild than precise. He hurled bursts of flame—daggers, spheres, gouts—but Cale adapted. His armor changed with each attack—spines deflecting, plates absorbing, hooks catching the enemy’s limbs.

  With a roar, Cale closed the gap.

  He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, lifting him off his feet and driving him into the earth.

  Dust and ash exploded into the air.

  The cult leader coughed, fire sputtering around him.

  Cale stood over him, blade poised—but not striking.

  His voice came through the helmet, cold and clear.

  "You’ve lost."

  The cult leader wheezed, turning his head just enough to see the battlefield.

  His followers lay scattered—some unconscious, others unmoving. Their weapons smoldered, flames fading into silence. Tiana stood amid the fallen, her hands glowing with residual energy, her expression cold and resolute. Blood stained her robes.

  Tiana was not like Cale.

  She wasn’t afraid to bloody her hands.

  Villagers emerged from hiding. Some gripped pitchforks and rusted swords, their hands trembling. A few children clung to their parents.

  The cult leader let out a rasping laugh.

  It dissolved into a bloody cough. Phlegm splattered the ground and sizzled in the heat.

  His voice fell to a whisper.

  "So you were the one who killed the elemental spirit," he rasped. "Such a cruel act... to deprive this place of purification."

  His head tilted back.

  His eyes closed.

  Cale thought it was over.

  But then—

  The brands burned.

  Every twisted symbol on the man’s skin ignited at once, flaring from orange to searing white.

  And not just on him.

  Across the field, the same marks on the bodies of his fallen followers began to glow.

  Brighter.

  Hotter.

  The air thickened with unbearable pressure.

  Cale’s instincts screamed.

  "Tiana!" he roared.

  She looked up just as he reached her, wrapping his arms around her. His armor surged, steel rising like a wave to encase them in a dome.

  And then—

  The world exploded.

  A deafening roar.

  White and orange light consumed the village square. Fire erupted in every direction, flattening buildings, uprooting trees. The shockwave hurled villagers through the air. The earth cracked like dry wood.

  Inside the barrier, it was darkness, heat, and raw force.

  Cale held tight.

  The metal screamed, glowing red as it bore the weight of the blast. Heat pressed from all sides. The steel groaned and warped.