Irin didn't move.
The fire had burned low, its light little more than a weak glow against the creeping darkness. Across the pit, Lera still slept, curled into a tight ball, unaware of the thing now stalking the edge of the trees.
He strained his senses. Branches snapped under the weight of deliberate, measured steps. Not a beast. Not a lost traveler.
Something that knew he was here. Something that didn't rush. It didn't need to.
Irin slid his hand to the hilt of the small dagger tucked into his belt. Pathetic weapon against magic — but maybe better than nothing.
The presence circled them, hidden beyond the reach of the dying fire. A slow orbit. Waiting.
Then, silence.
No more steps. No sound. As if the night itself held its breath.
Irin stood, careful not to wake Lera. His legs felt heavy, as if the very air weighed him down. He scanned the darkness, heart hammering against his ribs.
A flicker — barely seen. Movement near the trees.
And then it spoke.
"You carry the mark," a voice said, low and smooth. Neither male nor female. Neither young nor old. It simply... was.
Irin stiffened. "Who are you?"
The figure stepped forward, just enough for the fire's weak glow to kiss its form.
Cloaked in dark robes, their face hidden behind a mask of tarnished silver, shaped like a twisted sun. Strange runes glimmered faintly on the fabric of their sleeves, pulsing with an energy that felt old, brittle, and sharp.
"I am a Watcher," the figure said. "Sent to find what should not exist."
The Ashstone under Irin's cloak pulsed once — faint, like a heartbeat from another world.
The Watcher tilted its head. "It has chosen you."
Irin said nothing. His fingers tightened around the dagger.
"You are an error," the Watcher continued. "A wound in the weave. And wounds must be closed."
It raised a hand.
The shadows around them stirred.
Irin moved on instinct.
The dagger flashed, but before he could even close the distance, the shadows rippled — and something unseen slammed into his chest, hurling him backward.
He hit the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs.
The fire guttered under the sudden gust of dark magic, shrinking to a faint ember.
Lera jerked awake with a cry. Her eyes widened as she saw the figure looming over them.
"Run!" Irin rasped, forcing himself to his feet.
She didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her bag and fled into the woods.
The Watcher made no move to chase her.
Its attention was all on Irin.
"You will not leave," it said, voice like stone grinding against stone.
Another pulse of magic built in its outstretched hand — dark, coiling tendrils of energy forming a lance.
Irin's mark burned.
Without thinking, he thrust out his palm.
The air between them shimmered. A wall of invisible heat surged outward, catching the lance mid-flight. The shadow-magic hissed, twisted, and dissolved into smoke.
The Watcher paused. For the first time, it hesitated.
"You are... unstable," it murmured.
Irin didn't wait.
He ran.
The forest became a blur of black trunks and silver mist.
Branches tore at his clothes. Roots tried to catch his feet. The Ashstone thudded against his chest with each desperate step, pulsing faster and faster, almost like it was urging him onward.
Behind him, the Watcher followed — not running, but moving with terrible certainty. Like death itself.
Irin risked a glance back — and stumbled.
A root caught his boot. He crashed hard, rolling down a slope into a shallow ravine. Pain flared through his shoulder.
He struggled to his feet, gasping.
Ahead — a gap in the rocks. A tunnel? A cave?
No time to think.
He stumbled inside, the darkness swallowing him whole.
The air inside the cave was damp and cold. The walls seemed to press in around him, slick with moss and old magic. He could barely see, but he kept moving, deeper and deeper, until the entrance was nothing but a sliver of moonlight behind him.
He stopped only when his body refused to go further.
Panting, he pressed his back against the wall and listened.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice.
Had he lost it?
Or was it simply waiting?
The Ashstone warmed against his skin. Not in fear.
In recognition.
Irin turned slowly.
There, at the back of the cavern, half-buried in stone, was another relic.
A pedestal of blackened bone, rising from the earth like a frozen scream. Upon it, a crown of shattered crystal, its pieces floating inches above the surface, spinning slowly, endlessly.
As he watched, a whisper slid into his mind — not harsh like the Watcher's voice.
Gentle.
Welcoming.
"Ashborn. Claim your right."
He didn't understand.
He didn't need to.
Drawn by something deeper than thought, he staggered forward, raising his hand.
The moment his fingers brushed the lowest shard of the crown, a surge of power exploded through him.
Visions tore across his mind.
A sea of ash stretching forever.
Cities crumbling under black suns.
Armies kneeling before a figure wreathed in endless flame.
His flame.
He screamed — or maybe he didn't. Maybe the sound was only in his head. But the world buckled, and when he opened his eyes, he was still standing.
Still breathing.
But different.
The mark on his wrist now blazed bright gold, the lines no longer broken, but whole.
Outside, he heard a roar — not of an animal, but of magic itself, rippling across the forest.
The Watcher would feel it.
So would others.
He was no longer hiding.
Ashborn had awakened.