Zekar woke up under a weight that felt like the mountain itself had collapsed on his chest. His lungs burned with every shallow breath, the air thick with the sharp smell of alchemical fire and charred cedar. He lay there for a long time, staring through a gap in the scorched timber, at a sky that no longer held any stars.
He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming. A heavy, blackened beam rolled off him, sparking as it hit the ash-covered floor. He stood among the ruins of their home or what was left of it. The walls were scattered stones; the roof was gone. The familiar scent of Mama's herbs and Baba's steady chopping against the woodpile were gone, replaced by a silence so complete it made his ears ring.
"Ryker?" His voice came out as a broken rasp, barely audible over the distant crackle of a dying fire.
