Russell's booth sat half-sunken in the dust near the edge of the trade quarter—little more than a tarp stretched over carbon rods and a few crates stacked with iron restraints and oxygen tabs. Smoke from a low-burning heater coiled into the gritty air. Two soldiers stepped through it, boots clanking on metal plates as they approached. Russell hunched over a pot of meat broth, stirring in slow circles.
"Where is Escar?" Russell lifted his head to see Kaleb and Bart approaching from afar.
"I thought he was with you," Russell said, sipping a spoonful of broth.
"Well he clearly isn't with us, is he?" Bart barked.
"I haven't seen him since he went to the lower levels," Russell replied—and he already knew what Bart would want next.
"Bring out the girl," Kaleb ordered as he slammed his fist onto the table.
Russell didn't look up. "Fifty diamonds. One hour. That is the deal."
"We're not here for the damn price," Bart growled. "Escar didn't check in. Haven't seen him since we left him with you and your girls."
Russell stirred the pot lazily. "This city eats people. Didn't your mother tell you that, Bart?"
Kaleb stepped closer. "Did he only have that one girl for the night?"
"Yeah. Just one. The one that doesn't speak. The one that doesn't move." Russell's voice turned dry. "You know her."
"Was she here the whole night?" Kaleb asked.
Russell let out a rasping laugh. "The girl's like a statue. She doesn't even eat unless we force her. And you're telling me she killed a soldier?"
"We're questioning her," Kaleb said—though his tone lacked certainty.
Russell shrugged and lit a cigarette with a battered match. "You've been down there. Good luck."
Bart took one step forward… then stopped. The implication weighed heavier than the smoke.
Wordless, he turned away, Kaleb following him back toward the spiraling upper shafts of the mine-city.
As they walked, their voices drifted between the steel walkways and narrow ash-choked alleys.
"I'm telling you," Kaleb muttered, "marching those rats out to the Ash Fields every damn day is pointless. We get nothing but dust and a few pebbles."
"True—and the walk back at night? Half of us need stims just to stay awake," Bart replied, drawing a cigarette from the inner pocket of his heavy coat.
"We should've opened the mines back up weeks ago," Kaleb said. "This surface sweep was a joke."
"Command says the depths still aren't stable. And the disappearances…" Bart's voice thinned. "You really want to be down there when another shift vanishes?"
Silence settled for a moment as they passed a chained slave convoy returning to the lower barracks. Blank faces. Ash clinging to every inch of skin. Kaleb spat into the dirt. Bart only sparked his match and drew smoke deep.
"Still better than babysitting corpses in daylight," Kaleb muttered.
"I heard something new," Bart said quietly, eyes flicking to the dark alleys.
"What?"
"They say graves are being raided. Something's eating corpses."
"There's no living thing on this rock but us," Kaleb scoffed.
"All I'm saying is, it's happening. And whatever it is—it only takes the fresh ones."
"Maybe the slaves are doing it," Kaleb mocked. "Sneaking out at night to graveyards to fill their bellies with meat. Tired of chewing stone bread."
"With their chains on, or off?" Bart snorted.
They both laughed—a short, bitter sound swallowed by the swirling ash-laden wind as they walked toward the alley leading to the Black Rose district. Lantern lights flickered to life far below. Night was rising back to life.
The sun was dropping fast, bleeding the sky in rusty streaks as they reached a jagged outcrop just shy of the city's broken perimeter. The Last Fire's Eve they had made for—that they had to camp for—that they had to stop for. Even if they had marched all night, cutting the wind and crunching the scorched stone beneath their boots, they still wouldn't have made it in time. The priest glanced at the ash fields, or rather the bone fields hidden behind. Last Fire's Eve for him, a priest of Myter, a follower of Karina and of such a high rank, this was a sin he couldn't abide. But for the boy—for his goodbye—he had to stay put this night.
The priest crouched near a mound of dry scrap, pulling strips of blackened synthwood from his pack. "We camp here again. Another night with the city watching us sleep." His voice was tired, but not defeated. He struck a match and coaxed the flame to life, feeding it slowly until the fire's flicker pushed back the creeping dusk. Ashen was already lowering his sack, wiping sweat and soot from his brow.
"Set the meat out," the priest said. "Dunk it in the fruit paste. The kiwi'll draw out the salt and soften what's left of the fat." He rummaged through his belt pouches and tossed a small tin toward Ashen, its contents sloshing with a thick, green syrup. Ashen caught it and pried the lid open. The scent was sharp—citrusy and faintly fermented.
"Just soak it," the priest said, already assembling a makeshift tent with swift, practiced hands. "You'll learn, boy. Even the worst cuts taste like feasts with the right trick. And we'll need our strength tomorrow. Closer we get, the thinner the silence gets."
Ashen worked quietly, dipping the meat and setting it on a slab of stone by the fire. Above them, the sky dimmed into bruised purple, stars faintly winking through the swirling ash. In the distance, the city flickered like a dying lantern—its walls still unreachable. As the meat soaked quietly in the kiwi paste, the boy sat with knees drawn close, his eyes flicking toward the dim horizon. The city still glimmered faintly across the ash plains, unreachable and ghostlike.
"Where are you from?" he asked the priest, his voice low, almost unsure if it even mattered. The priest kept working, fitting stones into the base of the fire pit.
"Tablis," he said after a pause, "an ordinary world with ordinary people. Except some happen to be priests or priestesses of Myter. Funny how that works, isn't it? A holy world—but all worlds are holy, and most of them lack any shrine."
The priest glanced up, a crooked smile in the firelight. "Still, not everyone's from there. Pilgrims come. Traders. Envoys. Broken folk hoping to get fixed." He reached into a small case by his side and pulled out strips of now-tender meat, placing them gently on a flat grill stone. The smell began to rise—savory, sweet, heavy with fruit and fire. "If you mean where I was born, though—Astian." The name came with a visible shadow of pain behind it.
"A place I hardly remember. Fair world. Fair share of misery too. But... like all wounds, some things are best left closed. Sometimes forgetting is the only way to heal."
The boy looked down. "I don't know where I'm from," he said. "Never knew."
The priest nodded slowly. "That's the mercy of it, Ashen. Not knowing—sometimes that's a blessing in disguise. What we carry in our minds… often it hurts more than it helps."
They sat in silence for a moment, the crackle of the fire rising between them. Then, the boy looked to the sky. "What were those two blue flares today? That light… like it tore the sky."
The priest didn't look up. He flipped the meat slowly, letting it sizzle. "Probably Kenta," he muttered. "Ran with his tail tucked between his legs."
"Where to?" Ashen asked.
"Probably to find a bigger dog," the priest said with a snort. "Big enough to scare the shadows off his back."
The meat hissed, done now. The priest slid a piece onto a flat of bread and tossed it to Ashen.
"Eat up, boy. Those who sleep early at night wake early in the morning, and the rite is finished by dawn."
Ashen took a bite, his eyes still fixed on the embers. Neither of them spoke after that. The fire said all that needed saying.
The meat was juicy and tender, the boy thought, almost melting on his tongue. A strange, pleasant sweetness filled his mouth—a soft, fruity flavor that lingered, no doubt from the priest's careful fermenting with the kiwi fruit. It was unlike anything Ashen had ever eaten before—a small luxury in a world where hunger was as common as breathing.
As he finished his portion, he noticed the priest had already eaten and now stared silently at the horizon. The distant city glowed even more brightly than before, its towers like needles of light piercing the dimming sky.
Ashen squinted. In the faint light, he thought he saw something—movement, shadows slipping and twisting in erratic patterns across the barren ground, zigzagging toward their camp.
He turned his head to the priest, hoping he hadn't imagined it. But the priest had already seen. His gaze sharpened, tracking the distant figures.
Without alarm, in a voice as calm as if he were commenting on the weather, the priest said,
"Rest up, boy. Let shadows dance if they must. We'll be gone before they catch their breath."
Ashen hesitated, uneasy, but obeyed. He pulled his thin blanket over himself, the faint crackle of the fire and the shimmer of moving shadows the last things he saw before forcing his eyes closed. He forced himself to sleep. First, he counted sheep jumping the fence like his mother had told him, and then those sheep became priests that jumped a higher fence. But not long after, he was asleep. His eyes were closed and his mind was gone.
Ashen's mind drifted into sleep, carried by the rhythm of the flames and the slow heartbeat of the distant city. In his dreams, the darkness lifted, replaced by a warm golden light — the woods of his childhood. He ran through tall grasses, laughter light on his lips. In the distance, across a sunlit field, he spotted her — his sister — her hair a mixture of gold and ginger, caught by the wind, sparkling like fire.
Smiling, he turned back, sprinting toward the small wooden house that had always been their home. Through a window, he glimpsed a familiar face — his mother. Without hesitation, he hurried inside, the cool wooden floor beneath his feet, the scent of fresh bread and earth filling his senses.
In a small room, bathed in soft afternoon light, she sat quietly in her old chair.
"Mother!" he cried joyfully, running to her. "I had a terrible nightmare... but it's all over now!"
She didn't move. Her face was still and distant, her eyes half-closed as if lost in a deep, unreachable thought. Confused, Ashen stepped closer, taking her hand. It was cold. Colder than ice.
"Father!" he shouted, panic rising in his voice. "Rain! Come quick, we have to warm her hand!"
But no one came.
The house was empty. Silent.
Desperation gr gripped him. Tears blurred his vision. He knelt beside her, clutching her hand tighter, speaking in frantic whispers.
"If I had been there... if I'd been with you in the mines... maybe I could have saved you... maybe I could have stayed with you..."
The light around him began to dim, shadows creeping from the corners of the room. As the dream dissolved into darkness, he heard her voice, soft and clear, like a memory breathing life:
"I will always be with you, Ashen."
---
Across the camp, where the fire crackled low and stars blinked through the dusty sky, the priest's head drooped. For a moment, he too slipped from the waking world into old memories.
In the half-light of his dream, a boy walked through a ruined city. The streets were slick with blood, bodies strewn like broken dolls beneath the fading sun. He moved through the devastation, small and silent, his boots splashing through puddles dark as oil.
He knew where he was going. He had to go home.
Ahead, a crowd gathered in front of a familiar doorway — neighbors, strangers, and those tall green-eyed soldiers that wore black armor that shone a purple hue under the light — faces he recognized, twisted with fear, sorrow, and something worse: pity.
He pushed forward, frantic.
"Have they killed my father?" he cried out, asking a question he thought he knew the answer of.
A rough hand caught his shoulder. A man's voice, heavy and grim, answered:
"It wasn't just your father."
The boy stood frozen, the words cutting deeper than any blade. Before he could scream, before he could even move, a new voice pierced the heavy dream — a woman's voice too familiar, yet a voice he couldn't recall. Sharp and urgent, shouting:
"Wake up!"
The priest jerked awake—and so did Ashen, just a few meters away. Out of the corner of their eyes, something moved: a figure, low and fast across the ash-covered earth, blacker than the night itself. Neither could make out its full shape or face; it was a smear of living shadow, racing toward them on all fours It slithered more than ran, its limbs folding and unfolding like jointed shadows, each movement too smooth, too light.
Ashen took a deep breath of the cold air. His outer shell shivered, yet somehow he burned inside.
The priest rose in one single motion, calm yet razor-sharp. Steel flickered into being in his palm—no summon, no ritual, simply there—reshaping itself as his fingers closed around the frame. A longsword, balanced, weighted for killing.Something changed. His eyes, once so human, now burned—one a deep yellow, the other rimmed blood-red.
Ashen looked down at the pebbles beside his bed; they were shaking from the creature's immense size, shivering just as the blood did inside his heart.
The creature lunged.
Bones beneath the ash cracked under its weight—dry, fragile snaps echoing like brittle twigs. As it lunged, it attempted to slash down the priest .It came down with its right claw, an elongated arm swinging in a scything arc meant to split the priest clean in half.
The priest stepped sideways, one controlled pivot, the strike missing by a handspan before raising his sword high, the blade emitting a fiery hiss, reimagining itself into a keen-edged cutting sabre that glowed a hue too bright.
Ashen glanced at the saber for a moment. He had never seen a sharper edge in all his life — a sharp edge that shimmered, swarmed, and bustled as though it were something alive.
To the left, the priest stood—aware of the danger, alert, every muscle poised ready to strike—
and to his right the creature growled, a deep hiss, a sound like a displeased snarl.
The creature had expected to end things quickly with only a single strike from its enormous claw. It fell from its leap—far, but not far enough. It hoped to regain air, using its shorter legs to slow itself and its enormous arms to jerk forward into Another strike. Another dodge—this one tighter.
It tried to claw down the priest again, but priest slipped beneath its swing and dragged his sword upward toward the creature's gut. The creature was already on top of him, yet still managed to block the blow with its other claw mid-jump.
The clash lit a spark, a bright spark accompanied by a deafening clang the sound rang out sharp, bright as the creature passed the priest and fell on its jaw, sending a swirling gust of ash into the air as it tried to grip the earth with its claws.
From that spark, for a heartbeat, the creature's form revealed itself in that flash. Ashen saw the creature's true form: its arms too long, its legs too short for them, and its head shaped like that of a snake or a croc. He did not see its teeth, but the shiver in his bones told him they were no doubt as sharp as its six horrid, jagged claws. He could see no eyes on its soot-like skin—but how could it lunge so precisely if it had no eyes?
But it knew where they were how could it not?
The creature hit the ground jaw-first, but rolled with the fall, claws raking earth, anchoring itself upright.
It did not take more than a blink before it lurched again, springing itself toward the priest, trying to maul him with both claws. The priest ducked low and evaded the swing, This time it didn't commit to the strike—it used its claws to whip its body around mid-air, correcting its trajectory like some monstrous cat.
It landed close—too close, it used those claws to twist and turn mid-air, adjusting direction faster than any beast should, anchoring itself by gripping into the earth with those gigantic claws.
Ashen couldn't breathe hard enough. Every inhale came with a storm of ash that had been swirled up into the air with the fight. His throat burned—a deep, dry burning—and Ashen couldn't tell if it was entirely the ash or a mixture of fear and dust.
He tried to swallow his terror, but his tongue felt a heavier stone than the swirling dust in his lungs.
The beast shifted toward the priest even quicker than its controlled descent. Before the priest could even hear the thud of its alight, it attempted another slash with its left claw. It seemed the blow would meet its mark—but The priest twisted, evading by a breath with a twirl and even managed to lunge his sword at the creature, slicing the dorsum of its left hand and nearly dismembering one of its claws, as the tip of the blade stirred up a whip of ash into the night sky.
From its open wound, a black stream poured into the air. A droplet splashed near Ashen and quivered on the ash, moving on its own will—too thick, too heavy to be blood.
The creature shrieked and roared in pain.
Not a roar.
Not a scream.
Something that seemed to tear sound itself apart.
A howling, blistering roar that forced Ashen to clamp his hands over his ears, pain ringing through his skull. Even with his hands pressed tight, he heard and saw in that moment of recoil— the creature struck. The back of its massive palm hit the priest like a thrown boulder. Even his reflex to slip aside was not enough. The priest tried to evade that blow , but the hand was too large.
The impact sent him to air—legs lifted, cloak whipping, sword flashing in his light grip—his body hurled upward nearly as high as the beast itself could jump.
He hit the ground hard and slid—once, twice—ash spraying in a long grey arc behind his fall.
The beast did not pause.
It hurled itself at him, jaws splitting wide enough to swallow half a man—its white teeth shone like neat daggers and needles stacked in the dark, shaped entirely by hunger in that gaping maw.
The priest tried to rise—foot slipping in the ash, nearly twisting. He didn't find his stance—he jumped, raw instinct, straight upward to the stary night sky.
The creature fell on its track. It seemed confused, not knowing the direction of the priest's impending fall.
He landed on the creature's skull.
The priest was dwarfed by the creature's skull. If it had opened its maw and closed it at the right moment, it could have munched two priests inside those pointy jaws.
The creature bucked, claws reaching up, trying to tear him off. The priest's blade carved down—striking the crown of its head once, twice, three times. A short, sharp click-clack rang out as the blade failed and recoiled off the creature's poll. Only a faint glue-like blood seeped out—darker even than the beast's own skin. If not for the thin starlight, it would have been indistinguishable from the darkness and the soot that roamed on all sides.
The beast swung its claw upward—trying to crush him atop its own skull. The priest angled aside, steel biting down again, severing the half-dismembered claw entirely. The severed talon fell with a thud, twitching in the ash.
The creature roared—louder, enraged.
It tried to shake off the priest, twisting its head left and right with frantic speed. The priest at first attempted to keep his footing, but then, with a sharp decision, he tightened his grip on the blade—every finger pressing hard against the oval metal hilt—as he drove the sword deeper into the creature's skull, anchoring himself while finally breaking through its skull.
The creature managed only a single, sharp squeak before it went still—as if it had died, or had suddenly discovered a brilliant thought.
It rolled.
A sudden, violent drop of its weight—trying to crush the priest beneath its bulk. The priest kicked off, pushing himself free and unsheathing his blade from the creature's bone just as the creature struck the ground. Ash swarmed around it as it rolled back and forth, bashing the back of its head against ash and stone—doing more harm to its own skull than what the priest had done.
Priest slid backward across the ash, boots scraping, cloak dragging, breath sharp—but the beast was already chasing, its remaining claws raised high.
It slammed down.
The ground shook.
Stone cracked.
Ash leapt in a grey burst to the sky.
But the priest was not there.
He had already moved—one hard step, one lunging glide back into his stance—
Sword lifted.
Breathing steady.
Eyes burning two different colors in the dark.
The fire crackled—a small sound swallowed by the vast night.
Ashen's gaze pulled toward the creature. Every part of him trembled. His bones felt hollow. He tried to rise—just a shift of weight, just to stand—and the creature turned.
It faced him.
Its jaw opened wide— with sharp pointy teeth that were shaped like knives — with a hunger so primal he felt it in his spine.
"Ashen—stand still," the priest said, sharp and low.
But the command—spoken aloud—was enough for the creature to twist to his side.
The creature lunged.
Its claw raked across priest's belly—not deep enough to spill his guts, but deep enough to part skin and muscle. A line of red opened across his abdomen as a stream of red blood trickled outside .
Air tore out of Ashen's lungs in one violent gasp. Cold swept over him—cold that came from inside, from the shock and the fear. Strangely, he didn't feel cold within; he was burning in every bone, every muscle, and even every thought—but his skin shivered on the outside.
His vision swayed, his heartbeat thudding in the base of his skull.
He couldn't breathe.
The creature gathered itself—hind limbs coiling, shoulders rising it seemed to smell his fear of demise.
It ran at him.
Fast.
Too fast.
But the priest was faster.
He threw himself forward across the ash, boots skidding, sword rising.
A single sweeping cut—meant not to kill but to halt.
The blade struck the creature's tail.
SHRRNK.
The tail severed in a messy, blackened spray.
The creature screamed—its cry a shattering, jagged sound that cracked the quiet night .
The howl didn't fade.
It rose—louder, higher—like pain becoming rage a deep rage that burned the creature from inside .
The creature twisted, turning its eyeless face back to the priest.
It lunged again—this time jaws unhinging wide enough to clamp over the priest's entire torso as it tried to tare him apart.
The priest didn't meet the jaws.
He didn't try to block.
He threw himself backward, one sharp step, cloak snapping in the wind.
The creature's jaws clamped on empty air—teeth slicing the space where the priest's ribs had been a second earlier.
Ashen, half-collapsed, stared in panic.
The fire popped, sparks rising.
The night wind pulled the smoke sideways.
Blood ran warm down the front of priest's stomach.
His fingers shook as he held his sword high in his palm .
And still, the creature moved.
Still, the priest stepped back into stance.
They were not done.
The priest's mask refigured away from his face. Ashen's vision blurred for a blink, but the starlight was enough. The mask slid out from his flesh, and its sharp, dagger-like horns shone under the night sky—not as brightly as the priest's eyes. Those eyes did not merely glow; they flickered, bursting with light. One was crimson, as red as blood could come, and the other the brightest golden yellow Ashen had ever seen.
The priest was facing Ashen, and the beast was facing him. Ashen couldn't see the creature's maw from where he knelt, but he could hear it—snarling, grinding its dagger-shaped teeth against one another, a grating sound that shook the ash beneath the beast's feet.
The beast was a beast—but the priest, now, was not much different. Ashen could see it as clearly as if under daylight: the priest was no longer human. He was a Creature of the Night—perhaps even more so than the beast.
The priest took a long breath, a hiss of white mist filling his lungs, and he firmed his footing. The creature hissed back—high and sharp—not unlike a squirrel, but more like a cutting machine.
The creature was far too large for the priest to end with pushing or playing. One clean strike—that was what he needed. What he intended. What he desired. And as the priest broke into a sudden sprint, the creature ran as well, weaving in a zigzag, as if it had caught the scent of the priest's charging sprint.
As they came near, the creature used its advantageous long arm in a wide swing.
The priest twisted aside at the last instant, sword flashing. The blade elongated, bending at impossible angles as it carved into the creature's side. The wound hissed and smoked, but the beast, though hurt, was not finished. With a terrible shriek, it wheeled and launched itself again.
The priest turned to meet its leap. From Ashen's eyes it seemed as though the creature was lunging at him, when in truth it was jumping for the priest.
With a growl low in his throat, the priest drove forward, plunging his blade into the beast's thick neck. Though massive and armored, the sword sliced clean through. The creature screeched, its claws lashing out in a final act of vengeance—or a twitch—three jagged talons of its right paw tearing through the priest's upper body, ripping at his shoulder and arm, cutting through his chest, plunging into his lung with a force that tore muscle, cracked bone, and spilled a pool of blood from the priest's lung.
The creature's talons slipped out of his lung with another shuddering twitch.
The priest staggered, puking a mouthful of blood into his right hand. He fell to his knees.
And the glow faded from his unnatural eyes with just a faint fizz.
Ashen felt fear—real fear. The priest wasn't there to shield him. If another shadow jumped, if another shape tore itself from the dark—there would be nothing between it and him.
Horrified, he scanned the darkness, searching for more terrors. If there were any, he couldn't see them from afar. His eyes flickered to the priest, then back to the dark, then back again to the priest's shattered ribs.
His gaze fell on the broken priest—and froze.
Before his eyes, the impossible happened: muscle reknit, bone snapped back into place. The priest's wounds closed, as if time itself unraveled and rewove over his flesh. Then, with a shudder, the priest lifted his head—and his eyes blazed anew, fierce and golden-red against the night's hollowing pit.
The priest stood silently, scanning the fields for any sign of movement. In the far distance, vague shapes flickered—but they were retreating, slipping deeper into the night.
Satisfied, he turned his gaze back to Ashen.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Ashen's voice cracked.
"Y—Yes… yes."
"Come closer to the fire. Let me see your face."
Ashen stepped into the firelight. The priest examined him carefully, searching for wounds, but found none.
"It's halfway till dawn," the priest said. "Let us keep vigil together, to ward off sleep until the coming sunrise."
Ashen sat by the fire, silent, his eyes fixed on the flames.
"Speak, boy," the priest urged softly. "Words keep us breathing."
Ashen turned slowly.
"What should I talk about?"
"Whatever you like."
His gaze drifted to the priest's tattered cloak—ragged, barely held together by failing threads… threads that now slowly pulled themselves together, weaving back to their untorn form.
Ashen looked up.
The priest's mask was gone.
So were the burning eyes.
His eyes were human again—a deep green, hidden beneath the onyx eyes.
Ashen was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly:
"What was that thing?"
The priest's expression darkened.
"That… I don't know. A creature of shadow, maybe. Something that lived deep in the abyss until it saw light spill through cracks made by man—and crawled up to devour the light."
Ashen shivered.
"Are there more?"
"I hope not," the priest said quietly. "But if that creature lives, then it was born. And in nature, nothing is born alone. There is no one thing—only repetition."
Ashen stared at him.
"You… you died back there. It tore you open."
The priest gave a crooked smile.
"Well now… if you ask how I came back, I can't say. A good magician always keeps his secrets."
"Come on," Ashen pressed, desperate for an answer. "You can tell me."
"No, boy," the priest chuckled, poking at the fire with a stick. "It's the magician's code. Always show the trick—never reveal how it's done. A magician teaches only another magician. Are you one, that you demand magic?"
Ashen leaned forward, eyes wide.
"Can I become one? Can I be a magician?"
"Of course," the priest said with a wink. "With time. With practice. I wasn't one at your age, either. But it takes effort… and sacrifice. Remember, Ashen—nothing in this world comes for free."
He watched the boy for a long moment, then asked softly,
"Tell me, child—are you afraid?"
"No," Ashen answered plainly.
"Are you certain?" the priest pressed, his gaze unwavering.
"Yes," Ashen declared, lifting his chin. "I feel no fear."
"Well," the priest said with a tired grin, "I was afraid—for you and for myself. That whoreson of a monster gave me a run for my worth. I can't tell if I could fight two of that thing."
He rolled his shoulder with a crack beneath his sleeve, wincing but still smiling.
"Weren't you a little afraid?" he asked, glancing sideways at Ashen with the same beaming grin. "At least for me?"
"I am brave. Brave men don't tremble to fear," Ashen said aloud.
The priest's eyes softened. "Then tell me—what is bravery, brave man?"
"The ability to face what you fear," Ashen replied, though his tone carried a flicker of doubt.
"A fair answer. But tell me then—what is fear?"
"To be frightened of something," Ashen said. It came out more as a question than a truth.
"Incorrect. Incomplete," the priest chided gently. "Fear is not some poetic demon to be avoided or ignored. It is a feeling—no different from hunger, love, or anger. Feelings are not to be romanticized or demonized; they must be measured with precision. Fear, my child, is the rational response to immediate or impending loss."
Ashen frowned. "So now you glorify cowardice?"
The priest smiled faintly. "The greatest man I ever knew was a coward—a pirate, a trickster from some forgotten tale. He hailed from a city whose name escapes me."
"What did he do to earn such honor?"
"He wagered with a god of chaos," the priest said, voice low. "Swearing he would forsake his own life to spare those who had trusted him—even though they knew he was untrustworthy."
Ashen smirked. "Let me guess—he sacrificed them to save himself?"
"Quite the opposite. He did exactly as he vowed. He died, so others might live."
Ashen blinked. "And that makes him a coward?"
"Yes," the priest said simply. "Because he acted out of fear. He could have fled—saved himself—and let them perish. But he feared their loss more than his own death. So he surrendered to that fear and died in their stead. You see, Ashen… not all cowards are weak. All are simply afraid of losing what they love. The ones you despise are only those who love themselves more than anything else."
Ashen turned to the fire. The flames rose high, their light trembling on his face.
"I can agree to be that kind of coward," he said quietly. "I think."
"Oh yes, everybody is afraid of something. So if you were honest with me, would you tell me about your fear?" the priest asked earnestly.
Ashen sighed as he looked at the starry sky.
"To lose m… my… sis… sister. Before we reach the city. To walk there only to know she was d… dead all along," Ashen said with a cracked voice. His eyes were fixed on the high sky; out of the corner of his eye, he saw a grain of ash drift down slowly and fall toward the fire, the wind keeping it suspended for a heartbeat too long.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked the priest, sniffling as he reached toward the fire with both hands, opening his palms.
"I have little to lose, little to fear. But if I had to fear anything, I would fear the butterflies," the priest answered the boy.
"Butterflies?"
Ashen asked, confused, keeping an eye on the ash grain that had fallen from the sky.
"Those silent little demons and their quiet little ways,"
the priest said as the ash grain swirled around the fire, swinging low and high.
"It's the silent ones that kill you, the little ones that rage."
Ashen watched as the ash grain looped around his open fingers one by one, then came directly before his eyes.
"The big ones will hound you, the loud ones will pound you."
Ashen gazed as the ash grain leapt high and plummeted low in a perfect straight line.
"But the germs get in you and eat you inside out,"
the ash grain swung back toward the fire and did what it had done before. Ashen felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"Which wouldn't be so bad—except they don't ask for your permission,"
the priest said as the ash grain danced with the flame, dipping in and out in movements of its own design.
"They just get inside you and set up for their mission."
Ashen focused on the ash grain as it shone yellow or red—or something between.
"Or better than that, they get into your veins," the priest added, as the shining ash grain twisted into an eddy and drifted back toward the sky.
"And seep into your bloodstream, which causes a lot of pain. Or better than that, they make you go insane—if the little bugger slimes reach into your brain."
Ashen looked up as the ash faded into the night filled with flickering stars.
The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows as silence settled—heavy, thicker than fear. Ashen felt its warmth seep into his blood.