By the time the sun had fully risen, only smoke and smoldering ash remained of the outer gnoll encampment. The fire hadn't claimed lives, but it had devoured homes, scattered belongings, and shattered what little peace the tribe still held.
Now, the survivors stood restless and uneasy.
The entire camp buzzed with accusations. Sharp-toothed snarls echoed between the makeshift shelters that still stood. Cubs whimpered as their parents paced and barked in frustration. All eyes eventually turned toward the lone figure who had remained silent throughout the blaze.
The robed gnoll.
He had not emerged since the night of the fire. His hut—more of a carved-out stone chamber at the base of the mine hill—was barricaded shut from the inside. For many, that was reason enough to grow suspicious.
"He controls fire!" one gnoll growled, pointing toward the sealed entrance. "It is his doing!"
"No one else can make flame leap like that," another said, brandishing a scorched stick. "Why would it happen now, when his guards were on watch?"
The robed gnoll's guards, bulky warriors who normally kept the others in line, stood uneasy nearby. Their stance lacked conviction. They didn't bark. They didn't growl. The fire had shaken even them.
Soon, the chanting began.
"Come out!"
"Speak!"
"Answer for the fire!"
Gnolls began throwing stones at his door. Someone tossed a cracked bowl. Another hurled a spoiled gourd that splattered against the rocks. The noise grew louder as sticks banged against bones and claws raked the stone walls.
Inside, the robed gnoll sat alone.
He ignored the chaos outside and instead stared at the wand resting across his knees. It was a strange object, unlike anything the tribe had ever seen. Thin and curved, carved with flowing lines and symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. The first time he found it, it had been buried beneath a mound of ore, trapped under a block of gold-veined stone in the depths of the mine.
He hadn't been looking for it. He'd been younger then, sent to mine scraps like all the others. But when his pick struck something hollow, and he brushed away the dirt to reveal that strange wand, everything changed.
The moment he touched it, heat surged through his veins. It wasn't magic he understood, not truly. There were no voices. No visions. But the wand did something to him. It made the air feel alive. It made fire bend ever so slightly when he willed it.
He didn't know how or why.
But over time, he learned that the mine made it stronger.
If he held the wand above ground, he could spark dry leaves. Inside the mine, he could call flickers from stone and ash. And though the wand never spoke, and the magic didn't grow fast, it obeyed him with growing ease the more he practiced.
He had never told anyone how he found it.
Not even his guards.
In the early days, they thought he was a shaman, blessed by an ancestor. He didn't correct them. When the old chieftain fell, the flames gave him power—not enough to challenge in raw strength, but enough to make others fear.
Now, that fear was faltering.
He could hear them. The chants. The growls. The footsteps circling outside.
Some were calling for his blood.
His claws gripped the wand tighter. He didn't even know what it truly was. A bone? A relic? A tool from those cursed ships that washed ashore in broken pieces? He didn't care. It was his. The only thing that had ever made him feel… more.
And now they wanted to take it from him.
He stood slowly, his thin form shaking with tension. His robes hung in tatters, soot still clinging to the fabric. He walked to the rear wall of his chamber, where the natural stone dipped into a thin crack barely wide enough to push an arm through.
He pressed the wand against the rock and tried to summon a flame. A spark flickered—then fizzled.
Too weak.
He closed his eyes, steadying his breath, and tried again. The spark came slower now. It felt as though the wand was resisting him. Or maybe he was just exhausted. Magic wasn't like swinging a club—it wore him down in strange ways. Drained his thoughts. Made him forget things.
Outside, a loud thud echoed through the chamber. Then another.
They were hitting the door.
His guards barked something, but it sounded half-hearted. There was fear in their voices now. The gnolls weren't loyal to him—they were loyal to strength. If that strength faded, so would their obedience.
He turned back toward the door, wand still in hand.
His eyes narrowed.
They think I set the fire. Fools.
He hadn't. But he had felt it. When the blaze started last night, he had awoken to the roar of flames and the smell of smoke. He rushed to the entrance but stayed hidden, watching the inferno consume the straw huts. And as he stared, he realized the flames weren't his.
He hadn't summoned them.
He couldn't even stop them.
He had tried—oh, he had tried—but they burned wild, indifferent to his commands. That terrified him. And now… it terrified the others.
A loud crack from the barricaded door snapped him back to reality.
A stone had broken part of the bone reinforcement.
Then a chant:
"Burn the fire-walker! Burn the cursed one!"
He stepped back into the center of his chamber, wand gripped tightly.
They didn't understand. They never would.
He didn't want their fear. He didn't want their praise. He only wanted time—to understand the wand, to master its secrets, to prove it hadn't been a mistake to pick it up.
But time was slipping.
Outside, the crowd grew louder.
And inside, the flames inside the wand began to flicker again.
Not from confidence.
But from instinct.