The city was not quiet that night.
As Lena walked home, the silence was replaced by sirens, faraway shouts, and the occasional low hum of something she couldn't quite place. It was as if the shadows of Adrian Blackwood stirred with every whisper of her name. The air itself felt thicker, more charged, like the city was bracing for a storm no one else could see.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Unknown Number: You're getting close. Stop digging.
She stared at the screen. No number. No trace. Just the warning. The edges of the text seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the message itself didn't want to stay still.
But Lena wasn't afraid anymore.
Instead, a strange resolve bloomed inside her. Maybe it was foolishness, maybe defiance—but she couldn't stop now. Not after everything she had learned. Not with so many questions burning in her mind.
She arrived home to find her apartment unnaturally cold, despite the heater being on. Frost had formed in spirals across her windowpanes. The shadows in the corners of the room felt stretched, as though something watched her from just outside the edges of light.
She locked the door, drew the curtains tight, and laid out the case files across her living room floor. One after another. Fires. Disappearances. Symbols. Every entry that mentioned Adrian Blackwood. A pattern was forming—like a constellation drawn in ash.
He always appeared near orphanages.
Hospitals.
Shelters.
Places full of broken people. Lost people. People who wouldn't be missed.
She traced the dates. Every twenty years, a spike in reports. Every twenty years, the same haunting face reappeared. Each incident culminated in fire. Unexplainable, uncontainable fire.
This year marked exactly twenty years since the last known case.
A chill ran down her spine.
The whispers hadn't stopped either. Sometimes in mirrors. Sometimes in her sleep. Once, she'd heard them coming from her faucet—like the pipes themselves were breathing. It wasn't just her mind playing tricks. Something was watching.
She took the journal from the library—Evelyn Sayer's—and flipped to the final entry. It was barely legible.
"He's watching. Always watching. When the moth gets too close, the flame feeds."
Beneath it, a name was scrawled in shaky ink: The Ash Circle.
That was her next lead.
---
The next day, Lena found herself on the edge of the old district, where the city's glamour gave way to rusted fences and crumbling facades. Hidden beneath a defunct railway bridge was a rusted door, behind which lay the forgotten world.
She knocked three times.
A slit opened. Eyes peered through.
"Who sent you?"
"Evelyn Sayer," Lena said.
A pause. Then the door groaned open.
Inside, the air was thick with incense, candlelight dancing on ancient walls. Sigils adorned the ceilings. Strange artifacts sat on shelves, each pulsing with a silent hum. Paintings and etchings of fire, moths, and eyes covered the space like warnings.
A group of five sat in a circle, cloaked figures who watched her with curiosity and dread.
One of them spoke. "We are The Ash Circle. And you carry the mark, don't you?"
Lena nodded, pulling up her sleeve to reveal the faint burn. It had darkened since the day before, almost pulsing now like a heartbeat.
Gasps echoed around the chamber.
"You've seen him," said the eldest, a man with silver-threaded hair and one blind eye. "And you still live."
"I need answers," Lena said. "What is he?"
The man's voice was heavy with sorrow. "Adrian Blackwood was once human. Long ago. But he found something—an ancient fire. He thought he could control it. Instead, it consumed him. Now, he's the flame. Eternal. Hungry."
"And the mark?"
"The mark means he's chosen you. Either to become like him… or to burn."
Lena's stomach turned. "Then I need to end it. Tell me how."
They exchanged wary glances. Then one of the women stepped forward, younger than the rest, her eyes sharp and bright. "You want to fight a flame, you need to know what feeds it."
"Emotions," said the silver-haired man. "Grief. Rage. Despair. He preys on those who carry fire in their hearts. The more you suffer, the more he grows."
"Then what does he want from me?" Lena whispered.
"To make you suffer. To feed on your grief until you're hollow."
A memory stabbed her chest—her mother's last scream, the blaze, the emptiness that followed. Had he been there that night? Watching? Feeding?
The woman approached Lena and handed her a piece of parchment. A map. Hand-drawn.
"This leads to a place called the Ember Vault. Buried beneath the old cathedral ruins. It's the oldest site tied to him. That's where we believe the wick still burns."
"Wick?"
"If you can extinguish it, you starve him. It won't destroy him… but it'll weaken him. Maybe enough to trap him. Or end him."
Lena nodded slowly, her voice a whisper. "Then show me the way."
The woman gave her a sad smile. "You don't understand. You go alone. No one survives the vault unless they carry the pain. And yours burns brightest."
Outside, the world seemed to shift. The wind changed direction. Birds fled the trees. The air tasted like smoke.
And somewhere in the distance, Adrian Blackwood smiled.
Lena didn't see it, but she felt it.
A shiver danced down her spine.
Because now the moth wasn't just flying toward the flame.
She was about to step inside it.