The fire moved faster than thought.
He didn't see it—he felt it, the way someone feels a flame too close to their skin before they realize what's burning. The creature was on him in an instant, a streak of orange and ember streaking through the treeline with unnatural speed.
He jumped back too late.
Heat licked across his shoulder, singing the fabric, curling it into black. Pain flared hot and shallow—just enough to throw him off balance. He stumbled in the sand, boots sinking, barely catching himself before he hit the ground.
The monkey shrieked—louder up close. Not the sound of panic or warning.
Triumph.
It closed the gap with a leap, claws outstretched. He ducked, clumsy, throwing his arms up. A swipe missed by inches. The smell of burning bark and scorched air filled his lungs.
Then came the tail.
He saw it only as a blur of motion before it lashed across his vision—flame and force in one sharp arc.
The world spun.
His knees gave. One hand hit sand. The other instinctively pressed to his head where fire had kissed skin. The pain wasn't clean. It stung, like acid mixed with heat, crawling beneath his skin in angry pulses.
He gasped, dragging himself backward across the shore.
The beast didn't rush. It prowled forward, fire trailing behind its footsteps, feeding off the dry forest's edge.
He wasn't going to make it.
His arms shook. His breath rattled. The salt of the sea teased the back of his throat—but it was too far. His fingers dug into the damp sand, as if it might hold him up. But there was nothing to grip.
And then—
A stillness.
The flames crackled. The wind shifted.
And something moved within him.
Not a voice. Not a thought.
A knowing.
Like a tide drawn up from his chest, a pull deeper than instinct.
Reach for what answers. It remembers you.
His fingers scraped through wet sand. They reached farther—past the pain, past the fear—until they touched the edge of the sea.
And the sea rose.
It didn't wait for a command—didn't ask. It acted, like a breath that had been held too long. A surge of water whipped forward, not elegant, not shaped—just raw force. A heavy slap of salt and weight slammed into the flaming beast mid-step, quenching the air around it in a cloud of hissing steam.
The monkey shrieked again—this time angry.
But it didn't charge.
It turned, retreating in jolts, trailing smoke into the forest.
He didn't see where it went.
He only felt the water run back out beneath him, the tide pulling at his legs like it wanted him to come with it.
His eyes blurred. His skin burned. His vision began to flicker at the edges.
The beast was gone.
Only steam remained, curling where salt met lingering flame. Patches of sand had blackened from the heat—glass-slick in places, hardened into thin, fractured plates.
He couldn't lift his head.
His body refused to move the way he wanted. Limbs numb. Breaths shallow. Every pulse of pain reminded him he was still alive, barely.
The moon hung overhead, pale and massive, impossibly full. Watching.
It seemed closer than it ever had.
Something blurred the edge of his vision. A shape moving toward him, boots pressing into the cooling sand. Not fast. Not urgent. But steady. Confident.
He tried to speak, but no sound came.
Just one more breath.
Then darkness.
She'd never seen anyone use water like that.
Not in her village, not in the scattered trading boats that passed once or twice a year—never like that.
People could move water, sure. Push it aside to clear fish traps. Draw a wave toward the shore with enough effort. But this had been different.
This had been fast. Heavy. Like the sea hadn't been manipulated so much as it had answered.
And the one lying at the shoreline didn't even look like he understood what he'd done.
She made her way down the sand slowly, eyes scanning the treeline, then the tide. The wind carried traces of steam and smoke, but the air had cooled, like the world was settling back into itself.
He was breathing.
Half-curled where the water had left him, his clothes scorched and damp, face pale under the moonlight. His hand was half-buried in the sand, as if he'd been reaching for something when the strength left him.
She paused, just long enough to take in the burns, the strange clothes, the way he didn't look like anyone she'd ever known.
Then she bent down and grabbed him, jaw set tight as she turned back toward the village.
He woke to the sound of dripping water.
Soft, rhythmic. Somewhere nearby.
It took him a few seconds to realize he was lying down—on something firmer than sand, softer than stone. A woven mat, maybe. The air smelled like salt and burnt cloth and something bitter, like dried herbs steeped too long in a bowl.
His head ached.
So did his shoulder, and the side of his chest, and his ribs, and—
He groaned. Tried to sit up. Regretted it immediately.
Pain surged down his side in a slow, pulsing burn.
Blinking hard, he forced his eyes to focus. Lanternlight flickered across wooden walls. There were baskets, shelves, a low table. And beside him—seated on a short stool—was a girl.
Maybe his age. Pale hair pulled back in a braid, catching the lanternlight like thread dipped in ash. Not silver, not quite—but close enough that for one surreal heartbeat, he almost thought—
The moon?
No. Not her. Not even close.
But there was something in the stillness. In the way she was watching him.
She stood when she saw his eyes open, quiet and steady.
"You're awake," she said.
Her voice was simple. Not surprised, not relieved. Just… observant.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
She didn't wait for them.
"I'll go get Grandma," she said, already turning toward the door. "She'll want to see you."
And then she was gone.
He lay still for a while after she left, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts felt scattered, like they were trying to piece themselves together faster than his body could catch up.
The room was quiet except for the steady drip of water nearby. The pain in his ribs had dulled slightly, but it was still there—deep and persistent.
Footsteps returned. Two sets.
The girl reappeared, followed by an older woman with sharp features and a calm, unreadable expression. She didn't speak as she moved to his side, crouching beside him without hesitation.
She extended one hand toward a basin near the wall. Water lifted from it, drawn through the air in smooth strands, and settled across his shoulder. The relief was immediate—cool, controlled. Intentional.
"You'll be sore," the older woman said. "But you'll heal."
He watched her work. "What is this place?"
"A village. Coastal. Small," the girl answered from near the doorway.
The older woman didn't look up. "You're not far from where she found you."
"I'm Elias," he said, voice still raw.
The girl nodded once. "Kaelen."
The older woman gave a brief glance. "Maelen. I'm the healer."
Elias tried to move again, slower this time. His body didn't like that idea.
"That thing in the woods," he said. "The one that attacked me."
Kaelen stepped a little closer. ". Not common this close to the shore."
"It came out of nowhere," he muttered. "I didn't know what to do."
"You did something," Maelen said. "Whatever it was, it kept you alive."
He didn't respond. He wasn't sure he had an answer for that.
She directed another thread of water across his side. The burn there was deeper—he felt it even under the cooling touch.
"You'll need a few days," she said. "Maybe more. Try not to make it worse."
"I'll stay put," he said.
Maelen stood and stepped back. "I'll check on you again before morning."
She looked at Kaelen. "Stay if you like. Just keep him from trying to stand."
Then she left the room, her steps quiet.
Elias turned his head slightly toward Kaelen, wincing as his shoulder pulled.
"Thanks," he said. "For dragging me out."
Kaelen shrugged. "Didn't seem right to leave you there."
He let out a shallow breath. "I don't know where I am. I don't even know how I got here."
"You're not from around here. That much is obvious."
She moved back to the stool and sat down again.
"You're lucky," she added. "The fire didn't finish the job."
He didn't say anything for a while. The room settled again, quiet except for the faint crackle of the lantern.
Kaelen hadn't moved. She still sat on the stool, arms resting on her knees, watching him—not with suspicion, but like someone studying a puzzle missing too many pieces.
Elias shifted slightly. His ribs reminded him why that was a bad idea.
"Is it normal," he asked, "for people to move water the way your grandmother did?"
Kaelen tilted her head. "She's a healer. That's what she does."
"No tool? No words?"
"She doesn't need them."
He let that sit. "And what about what I did?"
Kaelen didn't answer right away.
"It was different," she said finally. "People use water. That… felt like it used itself."
Elias looked toward the ceiling. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound like something he could explain either.
"You're not from here," she said. Not a question.
"No," he admitted.
Kaelen didn't press him.
She stood, brushing her hands lightly on her trousers. "Get some rest. You'll need it."
He didn't argue.
As she walked to the door, she glanced back once.
"I'll bring you something to eat in the morning."
Then she left.