He let out a thunderous roar, and in that moment, flames burst from his mouth—wild, untamed, and furious. The fire surged forward like a living thing, engulfing every dark creature in its path. It wasn't just destruction—it was survival, rage, and pain unleashed in a single breath. And in an instant, they were gone—burned away by the raw, desperate force of someone who had lost too much to hold back any longer.
The embers still smoldered where the fire had consumed the creatures, their twisted forms reduced to nothing but ash. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of burnt flesh and scorched earth, curling smoke rising in thin wisps to disappear into the somber sky above. Ayla stood frozen, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid breaths, her hands slightly trembling at her sides. She had faced death before—sneaking past monstrous patrols, running through crumbling alleys, watching others fall so she could keep going—but never like this. Never death that flickered and roared with the breath of a man. Never a fire that answered not to fuel or flint, but to will.
As she took a step back, her boots crunching softly against the scorched debris, her eyes flickered between the stranger and the fading flames, a mixture of fear and curiosity tightening her chest like a vice. "What… what are you?" she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, brittle and uncertain.
He didn't reply right away. Instead, he stared at his hands, palms up, fingers splayed. He flexed them slowly, watching the faint glow fade beneath his skin, feeling the raw energy thrumming just beneath the surface. It had been an accident, a reflex born of instinct—a defense mechanism that had ignited in the face of danger. For a brief moment, he had tapped into something vast and frightening, something that didn't feel entirely human. It was like holding lightning in his blood.
"I don't know," he finally admitted, his voice hoarse and thick with unspoken dread.
Ayla studied him, her grip on the rusted knife in her hand tightening by degrees. She sensed the strangeness in him, the power lingering like heat after fire. He sensed her fear too—could hear it in the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat and see it in the subtle trembling of her fingers. And yet, surprisingly, she didn't run. She stood her ground. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, forcing a stance of defiance even as her body betrayed her instincts to flee.
"Well," she finally said after a long pause, her voice finding a steadier rhythm. "Whatever you are… you just saved my life."
At that moment, he truly saw her—not just a silhouette in the smoke, but a person etched by pain and perseverance. A strong girl worn down by struggle, her cheeks sunken from hunger, skin weathered by sun and cold, clothes frayed and battered by a world that had long since shattered. She had the look of someone who had survived too many close calls, who carried losses like stones in her pockets. She had survived in this desolate landscape, but for how much longer?
"What's your name?" he asked, the question quiet but genuine, hoping to bridge the gulf of uncertainty that lay between them.
She hesitated for a moment, almost as if she were weighing her answer carefully, then lifted her chin defiantly. "Ayla."
The name resonated within him, akin to a lost fragment from a dream he couldn't quite grasp. "Ayla," he repeated, and then the realization hit him like a cold wave; he had no name of his own. Nothing to offer back.
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "You really don't know who you are?"
"No." The single syllable felt heavier than it should have. It carried a weight far greater than simple amnesia—it felt like absence, like something had been ripped from him before he was born.
Her gaze softened slightly, scrutinizing him with a depth of understanding that surprised him. With a small sigh, she sheathed her knife. "Well… nameless or not, I owe you. So I guess we're stuck together."
As they walked side by side through the remnants of what had once been a bustling world, silence wrapped around them, thick with unspoken thoughts and lingering tension. Ayla cast wary glances his way, still anticipating an eruption of flames at any moment, and honestly, he was too. What he'd done—what had happened—it felt impossible to repeat, and yet it lingered at the edge of his awareness like a sleeping beast.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, melancholic shadows across the crumbling buildings that resembled hollowed-out corpses. Broken windows stared like empty eyes. Nature, in its relentless persistence, had begun reclaiming what humanity had lost. Vines crawled over stone and metal, trees sprouted defiantly through fractured asphalt, and birds called in the distance—though their songs were few and far between.
"How long has it been like this?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Ayla glanced sideways at him. "Since before I was born."
He frowned. That made no sense. The visions he had—the fragments of fire, of war, of a falling world—they felt too immediate, too vivid to belong to some abstract past. "How do you know about the invaders?" he pressed, an urgency creeping into his voice.
Ayla sighed, kicking a loose rock down the street. "Everyone knows. The stories get passed down. My father used to tell me about the sky burning red and the creatures that came and turned people into monsters. Some say the gods abandoned us. Others think we deserved it."
At the mention of gods, something flickered in his mind—a half-formed memory that danced just out of reach, like a shadow slipping away before it could be touched. The voice in the void whispered again, like a song remembered in pieces: "You were made for this."
Before he could respond, a prickling sensation danced along his skin. A low, guttural sound resonated nearby, making Ayla freeze, her body going rigid. "Did you hear that?" she whispered.
He nodded, feeling the tension crackle in the air like static before a storm.
But then Ayla's legs wobbled beneath her, breaths coming in shallow gasps before she collapsed. He caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her in his arms. She felt warm yet fragile, her body trembling with exhaustion. Hunger and dehydration dripped off her like a heavy weight, but worse still—her injury, which he could sense lingering beneath the surface, hidden from the eye but not from him.
Gently, he placed a hand on her forehead, something within him waking up. It was as if he could see into her—each cell, each organ—magnified beyond human perception. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.
The wound at her side was infected, dying tissue creeping like poison through her blood. Left untreated, it would kill her.
His hands began to glow, not with fire this time, but with something softer—cooler. Instinctively, he placed them on her head, letting light flow from him into her. Water—the very essence of life—pulsed through her veins, reviving every cell. Energy surged within him, burning away the infection and sealing the wound as if it had never existed.
Ayla stirred and opened her eyes, a mixture of shock and disbelief washing over her. She felt different—strong, almost light. Where pain had once resided, there was now an unfamiliar warmth.
Sitting up abruptly, she pressed her hands to where her injury had been. Nothing. No scar, no pain. No trace.
"What… what did you do to me?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze.
He remained silent, just watching her with a mix of concern and wonder.
"I—I got this injury from a fall. I was running from them," she stammered, voice shaky. "It was getting worse. I thought I was…" She trailed off, fear gripping her anew.
Just then, a creature, barely recognizable after the flames, crawled away from their battleground, its charred limbs barely functioning as it slithered into the darkness. Each dragging motion left behind a smear of soot and ash.
The hunt wasn't over.
Before Ayla or he could react, something shifted in the shadows ahead—a blur of movement, dark limbs coiling with intent. They were still in danger, still being watched.
But in that moment, with their fates intertwined and breath mingling in the tension between heartbeats, he felt something stirring within him—a sense of purpose fiercely blossoming against the backdrop of desolation.
He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what he was. But maybe, just maybe… he was meant to protect what little remained.