The Last Emberborn

Ash drifted on the wind, curling like ghosts between scorched cobblestones. The cloaked man rose from where Garrik had hurled him, his movements smooth despite the impact. His cloak fluttered, blackened edges smoldering faintly.

"You've got some strength, old man," the figure muttered, brushing ash from his shoulder. His voice slithered with amusement. "Didn't expect to find a real opponent in a place like this."

He took a slow step forward, chains coiling around his arms like living things.

"No matter. You'll still die."

He lunged, and the air cracked.

Garrik met the blow head-on, axe flashing with expert precision. Sparks burst as chain struck steel. Their clash sent a shockwave through the street. Garrik's stance didn't waver.

The cloaked man blinked, eyes narrowing beneath the hood. He attacked again, faster—feints, angles, power meant to overwhelm. Garrik's responses were clean, efficient. His movements weren't flashy, but they held purpose honed by years of discipline.

Then came a moment—a flick of Garrik's wrist, a parry that turned an overhead strike into a spiral counter.

The man stepped back.

"…That technique." His voice lost some of its arrogance. "I've heard of it before."

Garrik didn't answer.

The man tilted his head, as if peering through time. "Iron form. Counterweight footwork. That stance…"

He stared hard.

"Who are you really?"

Garrik gave a long breath, eyes steady. "I should ask you the same. That magic of yours… the chains. That lust for pain. I've seen it before."

He took a step forward, axe still lowered. "You're one of them. Black Order."

The cloaked man grinned slowly. "I'm flattered." He gave a mock bow. "Most don't live long enough to recognize us, let alone say it aloud."

He straightened, voice lowering with reverence.

"I wasn't searching for him. Emberborn were myths — remnants of a war our kind helped erase. But power like that... it leaves echoes."

He began to circle slowly, shadows stirring at his feet.

"I came to these woods chasing a different rumor. Old texts spoke of fault lines in the world — places where buried magic hums beneath the surface. I thought this forest might house one. So I came, seeking answers."

He looked toward the forge square, where Draven had fallen earlier.

"But then the boar happened. Something in that battle stirred the air. Ancient blood flared like a spark in dry grass. Faint, but undeniable."

He tilted his head. "And now I know. What I felt wasn't just magic."

His smile widened, slow and cold.

"It was legacy."

Garrik's brow furrowed. "The boar."

Veyr chuckled. "A delightful byproduct. I was testing a fragment of binding flame—one of our older rites. Thought it would kill a few beasts. Instead, it drew something... unexpected."

"You," Garrik said. "You brought that creature to life."

Veyr's grin widened. "Only woke what already slept."

Garrik's grip on his axe tightened. "So that's how you found him."

Veyr's eyes glinted. "A flare that bright? Even buried, the blood remembers. And now that I've seen him awaken… I know what he is."

He took a long breath, savoring the moment.

"The last of his kind."

Garrik's gaze burned. "Say another word about him, and I'll bury you where you stand."

Veyr gave a short laugh. "Oh, you're no mere villager. You knew what that mark meant before I did. You've been hiding him, haven't you?"

Garrik's silence was answer enough.

"Interesting," Veyr mused. "Your technique. Your poise. It makes sense now."

He took another step forward, and shadows began to swirl at his feet.

"But this changes nothing."

Garrik raised his axe.

"I don't care who you are. You won't touch him."

Veyr exhaled like a man savoring the scent of blood.

"I've seen enough," he said. "You should never have stepped between me and destiny."

And then he moved.

Chains erupted from the ground like serpents, and Garrik met them head-on. The street exploded in sparks and smoke. The wind howled as steel clashed with darkness, two forces colliding in a storm of fury.

The villagers had long since fled the square, save for Draven—unconscious, flames flickering faintly at his fingertips.

The battle had begun.

And somewhere deep inside, Garrik knew:

"I guess no man can escape fate."