Solum woke to the taste of metal in his mouth and a steady throb in his side that told him something inside had torn. His body didn't feel like his anymore—too heavy, too slow. The kind of pain that didn't scream, just sank into your bones like bad weather.
The cave was darker now. The light from the glowing moss had dimmed. The veins of warmth in the floor no longer pulsed. The walls breathed quiet and wet, cloaked in vines that hung from the ceiling like old rope. Somewhere above, thin roots reached down through cracks in the stone, trailing drops of cold water.
He rolled onto his back with a hiss, the motion dragging pain up his spine.
He couldn't remember falling here. Only fire. The flame at the altar. Then darkness.
Then this.
For a long time, he didn't move. Just listened. There was no wind. No voices. Just the slow, leaking rhythm of the cave.
His arm was slick with blood. The wound had scabbed in patches, crusted against dirt and ash, but it wasn't healing right. Infection waited.
He sat up slowly, then reached for one of the long vines dangling nearby. It was coarse but flexible. He pulled it down, tore a length with his teeth, and began wrapping his ribs, then his arm. Not for comfort. Just so things wouldn't fall apart.
"Once a Warrior," he muttered.
And it used to mean something.
Warriors trained for years—sometimes decades—beneath the Ember sun! Through hardship, battle, and meditation during the thirty Days of Light, they disciplined their spirit until their Ember aligned with their soul. It was more than skill. It was control.
Solum had reached that once. Past the fragile flicker of Commoners. Far beneath the commanding presence of Sentinels who served the sanctums—but still, a Warrior.
Now?
Now he felt nothing in his chest. Not even the hum that once stirred beneath his ribs.
When he stood earlier, he'd felt it—a hollowness where his soul used to burn. Not the sharp ache of broken ribs, but a deeper absence. Like something vital had been carved out of him and sealed behind cold stone.
He tried anyway.
Eyes closed. Breath slow. Hands clenched.
He reached inward.
No warmth.
No Ember.
No response.
Only that same awful silence behind his sternum—something missing, something twisted.
"Damn you," he whispered—not to anyone in particular. Maybe to the flame that had rejected him. Maybe to the gods. Maybe to himself.
There was no exit that he could see. The cave twisted back into shadow on one end and narrowed into solid stone on the other. No stairs, no carved path. Just a low shelf of rock, some broken roots, and the smell of dust.
He would have to survive here.
Solum tore more vines from the ceiling and stacked them in a crude circle. Found some dry bark clinging to the roots, some splintered wood from a half-rotten beam leaning against the back wall—maybe part of some old scaffolding. It was enough to build a small firepit. He placed the shards carefully, like old instincts were still guiding his hands.
He extended his palm over the pile, breathing out. He willed the Ember to rise.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes tighter. Grunted. Strained.
Still nothing. Not even a glow.
With a half-choked growl, he slammed his fist into the stone.
He reached for two jagged rocks, struck them together. Sparks flew. Some caught the bark, then died. He tried again. Again. Hands bleeding now. Wrists trembling.
He failed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
No fire. Just the sound of his breath going ragged.
He slumped beside the pile, arms crossed over his knees. The silence seemed to thicken around him.
Then—
A sound.
Distant, but not distant enough.
A low rasping snarl. Wet. Heavy. From the black bend of the cave.
He froze.
It was no memory. No hallucination.
Something had entered this place.
Something alive.
And Solum had no blade.
No Ember.
No strength.
Just wrapped vines, a pile of failed kindling, and a body that barely held together.
'You're not a Warrior anymore'
And whatever had come crawling through the dark?
It didn't care what he used to be.