Thud.
Needless to say, after all that effort, Jermal finally collapsed, leaving his friends and family stunned by his display of supernatural power.
His mouth hung open, as if frozen in agony, yet no sound escaped. Crimson tears streamed from his eyes. Burns marked his skin like strokes of a devil's brush. None were fatal, but they still demanded treatment.
Some tribesmen muttered that he might get frostbite instead of burns, given the chilling aura of the black fire. But "joking" was a generous term. No one was truly at ease.
The hunters, seeing the flames halted around the ring of embers, cautiously approached the edge of the invisible barrier. The fire didn't just stop: it seemed to recoil, like a frightened animal before its master.
"Well, couldn't he have started with this?" one hunter said, half in disbelief.
He wasn't wrong. Jermal was unconscious, yet his unseen magic still restrained the inferno, something his wall of darkness could barely manage before, even as it drained every last drop of his strength.
The other tribesmen unpacked their tools and supplies, this time for good.
Jermal's father, Jermalin, rushed to his son's side, worry etched deep into his features.
Makeshift bandages, crushed herbs, and trembling hands. That was all the tribe could offer. And Jermalin had to make do with that.
He studied his son for a long moment. The burns didn't scare him as much as Jermal's face did. The blood-stained tears. The frozen scream.
And that fire. That unholy flame wasn't his son's doing. The black blaze could only come from something beyond mortality, a being untouched by death, bound by no law of men or nature.
A god's fire. The Hollow Eye's fire.
And he… didn't know how to feel about that.
Yes, their god had saved them. But only after placing them in danger to begin with.
No matter how Jermalin looked at it, all he could see was his son's tortured expression. The boy who had been granted divine power, forced to face the "trial" of the very being who had given it to him.
He pressed leaves tightly around Jermal's burns, after coating the wounds with herbs meant to fight infection. The smell of crushed roots filled the air, earthy and bitter.
Then, with shaking hands, Jermalin wiped away the streaks of blood running from his son's eyes. He tried to close Jermal's mouth, but it wouldn't move. It was locked open, frozen in silent agony.
With an aching heart, Jermalin set Jermal aside, heading towards the tribe.
The fire still licked at the barriers border, yet didn't dare cross it. They were safe.
The hunters gathered in small groups, discussing where they should settle next. No one was sure how far the Hollow Eye wanted them to go. Should they follow the river further downstream?
Totat sat apart from the others, lost in thought. Jermalin joined him, lowering himself onto the damp ground beside the old man.
"What should we do?" Jermalin asked quietly. "We might still be too close to our old camp. And the fire probably wiped out anything we could eat around here."
His question was on everyone's mind. And he wasn't wrong.
Totat let the silence linger before replying. "Tell me, boy. Do I look like a seer to you?"
"No… what does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm nothing but a pile of bones now," Totat said, a weary smirk tugging at his cracked lips. "How am I, an old Kramlin, wise as I may be, supposed to guess the will of a god?"
Jermalin said nothing. He had been relying on Totat's experience to guide the tribe, but it was clear this was beyond either of them.
"Your son likely holds the answers you're looking for," Totat said after a moment. "After all, he is the First."
"Right…" Jermalin murmured, uncertain.
RUMBLE. RUMBLE.
The ground trembled faintly as the air grew cold. The Kramlins looked up to see storm clouds rolling in. Thick,, heavy, and dark as ink.
Within moments, the forest dimmed under their shadow. Then came the rain. Slow at first, then steady, drenching the scorched earth.
Relief spread among the tribe. The fire would soon be gone.