Chapter 3: The First Flame
Two years after the ritual.
Sylas was twelve—wandering between broken cities, hiding from scanners and soldiers. No name on record. No home. Just whispered rumors:
"The Boy Who Survived the Ash Ritual.""The Walking Breach.""The Demon Lamp."
But Sylas didn't care. He just wanted the voices in his head to shut up and maybe—just maybe—a hot meal.
🌆 The Slums of Hollowstep
The slums stank of smoke and rot. Sylas huddled under a collapsed rail station, his blanket a torn plastic sheet. Junkies came and went. Rats had names.
One night, just as he was about to drift into uneasy sleep, he heard it:
A scream.
High-pitched. Scared. A child.
Sylas' eyes snapped open.
"Don't."
"We are hungry."
"Let us feed."
"Shut up," Sylas muttered. He crawled from his hiding place, following the sound.
Down an alley lit only by flickering neon, he saw two men—one bald with cybernetic arms, the other with glowing veins and cheap lifeforce mods—dragging a girl no older than eight.
"Let me go!" she cried, kicking.
"Easy, sweetheart," the bald one chuckled. "We're just gonna check your emissions."
Sylas' jaw clenched. His palms started to tingle.
The voices rose.
"Let us out."
"We'll flay them."
"We'll make it art."
"No," Sylas hissed. "Not you. Me."
⚡ The First Burn
He stepped from the shadows. "Let her go."
The augmented thug turned. "You serious, kid?"
"I won't say it twice."
The second man laughed. "Looks like Hollowstep's rats are getting brave."
He lunged—and time slowed.
Sylas' instincts flared. He sidestepped the swing with fluid grace, planted his feet, and thrust his palm forward.
Fwump.
A surge of black-red flame burst from his hand like a tidal wave of shadowfire. The thug flew across the alley and smashed into a dumpster. Smoke curled from his clothes.
The second man froze. "W-What the hell are you?!"
Sylas glanced at his hand—veins glowing dark, heat rising off his skin. He took a breath.
"I'm figuring that out."
The thug ran. Sylas let him.
🔥 The Aftershock
The girl stared up at him, eyes wide. "Are you… like the soul warriors?"
Sylas shook his head. "Not exactly."
"Then what are you?"
Sylas looked down at his hand. The glow faded. The voices inside him simmered, murmuring.
"I don't burn years," he said softly. "I burn something else."
The girl didn't understand. She just grabbed his arm. "Thanks."
Sylas flinched—then relaxed. "What's your name?"
"Lani," she whispered.
"Run home, Lani. Fast. Forget you saw me."
And as she disappeared down the alley, Sylas looked at the scorched pavement.
His first burn. His power.
Not borrowed. Not traded.
Something ancient. Something endless.