The moors opened before us, a sea of fog and grass, gray under a sky that didn't care.
My boots sank into mud, each step pulling at old scars, my shoulder still raw where blood had crusted from Iron Hollow's fight. The air was cold, sharp with earth and damp, like Thornwick before the Coalition burned it. I didn't want the memory—Clara's voice by the stream, her hand pointing at stars—but it came anyway, a blade in my gut. Ten years in a cell had frozen me, turned warmth to ice, but her name still cut. Daria moved beside me, her silver hair a flicker in the mist, her steps light, like she belonged here. I didn't belong anywhere, not anymore. I was a weapon, forged for one thing: to make them pay.
I scanned the dark, eyes sharp from years of watching for guards. The wastelands were gone, Nova Rhea's glow a faint bruise behind us, but I felt them—drones, vans, the Coalition's leash tightening. My hand twitched, heat coiling inside, magic begging to burn. Iron Hollow had caged it, dampeners choking my flames, but out here, it was free, and I was hungry. "They're close," I said, my voice low, flat, like stone.
Words didn't come easy now—ten years of silence, of whispering to Clara's ghost, had pared them down.
Daria nodded, her blue eyes scanning too, her knife gripped loose but ready. "They won't stop," she said, breath fogging. "Not for a Level S. We need cover—the caves, half a mile west."
"Caves?" I stopped, my stare hard. "I don't hide." Iron Hollow taught me to wait, to plan, not to cower. I'd spent a decade dreaming of this—enforcers screaming, towers falling, Nova Rhea choking on ash. Hiding was for the kid I'd been, the one who'd failed Clara. "Let them come. I'll end it here."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "End it?" she said, stepping closer, voice sharp. "You'll end us. There's more at stake—witches, rebels, a chance to fight back right. Clara wouldn't want—"
"Don't." I cut her off, my voice a growl, cold enough to frost the air. I towered over her, my shadow swallowing hers, and my hand glowed, sparks hissing to the grass. "You don't say her name. You don't know what she'd want." Clara was mine—her smile, her blood, my vow. Daria's hope was a lie, like the stars she'd trusted, and I'd learned lies got you burned. Year seven, I'd heard prisoners beg for mercy; year nine, I'd stopped feeling their screams. Mercy was weakness, and I was done with weak.
She held my stare, unafraid, her eyes too much like Clara's, stirring something I hated.
"I know enough," she said, quieter. "And I know you're not just this—this hate. She believed in you."
I laughed, short, bitter, like glass breaking. "Believed?" I turned, boots sinking deeper, and walked on. "She's dead. Belief's dead.
Only fire's left." My words were ice, each one clipped, because Iron Hollow had taken more than years—it took softness, left only edges. I didn't care what Daria saw in me. I saw the plaza, the lance, the crowd's roar, and I'd burn it all to keep that vow.
A whine cut the fog—high, mechanical, close. My head snapped up, spotting lights—four drones, their red eyes slicing the mist, followed by a rumble, vans cresting a ridge.
Coalition dogs, fast and armed. My lips curled, not a smile, just instinct. "Good," I muttered, planting my feet. My magic surged, heat flooding my chest, stronger than in the wastelands. Year ten, I'd melted a lock in secret; now, I'd melt their world.
"Asher, no!" Daria grabbed my arm, her grip tight, but I shook her off, hard, my eyes locked on the drones. They fanned out, beams sweeping, and a voice blared, tinny: "Asher Wolfe, surrender! Level S, stand down!"
"Surrender?" I whispered, my voice dead, and raised both hands. Fire exploded, a wall of flame roaring skyward, bright as hate. The drones swerved, but my magic was faster—flames curled, snagging one, then two, metal screaming as they burst, raining molten shards. The fog lit orange, heat scorching my face, and I pushed harder, fire arcing to the vans. An explosion rocked the ridge, glass and steel flying, and I heard screams—human, raw, the kind I'd planned in my cell.
I didn't stop. Another van flipped, fire eating its frame, and I walked forward, boots crunching ash, my hands glowing steady.
Iron Hollow had made me cold—year three, I'd stopped crying; year six, I'd stopped begging. Now I was the fire, the end, and every scream was Clara's name answered. A bolt grazed my leg, pain sharp but distant, blood soaking my pants. I didn't flinch, just burned hotter, the third van collapsing into slag.
"Enough!" Daria's shout broke through, her hands grabbing my shoulders, spinning me. Her face was fierce, streaked with soot, her eyes blazing. "You're killing them—us! Stop, or there's nothing left!"
I shoved her back, not hard, but enough. "Nothing left?" My voice was ice, each word a blade. "They took her. They took everything. You think I care what's left?" My flames flickered, not gone but waiting, and I loomed over her, my shadow black in the firelight. "Step off, or burn with them."
She didn't move, her breath fast, her knife out now, not raised but ready. "Clara didn't die for this," she said, low, like a dare. "She died for you—for something better. You're not her killer."
Her words hit, not soft but jagged, and for a second, Clara's face flashed—smiling, not bleeding, her hand on mine. I froze, my magic stuttering, the fire dimming. Iron Hollow had burned out doubt, but Daria's voice dug it up, and I hated her for it. Hated her for seeing me, for saying Clara's name like it was hers. My hands shook, sparks falling, and I turned away, chest tight. "You don't know me," I said, cold, final. "Keep walking."
The ridge was quiet now, just crackling flames and moans from the wreckage. I stepped over a drone's husk, its eye dead, and kept west, the moors' grass brushing my knees. Daria followed, silent, her steps a shadow to mine. My leg bled, my shoulder ached, but I didn't feel them—not like I felt the vow, hard as stone in my gut. I'd planned this in year eight, carving runes in my mind: Spire first, then slums, then every chipped skull who'd cheered. Daria's "better" was a lie. There was only blood.
The fog thickened, hiding us, and the moors whispered—wind, grass, ghosts. Clara had loved this place, said it held secrets, witches' roots. I didn't care for secrets, only fire, but something stirred, a pull I didn't want. Daria spoke, soft, like she sensed it.
"There's a camp ahead," she said, no trace of our fight. "People who knew her kind. They'll help."
"Help?" I didn't look back, my voice flat, dead. "I don't need help. I need them gone." My hand glowed, faint, a promise to myself. Iron Hollow had made me this—cold, certain, a blade for Clara. Daria could talk, could hope, but I'd learned one truth in ten years: vengeance didn't share.
We walked on, the moors swallowing our steps, and I felt her eyes, like she saw the kid I'd killed in that cell. Let her look. He was gone, and I was what remained—a vow, a fire, a man who'd burn the world for her.