The desert did not settle after the explosion.
Sand still hissed where heat lingered beneath the surface. Blackened glass crunched softly as something shifted beneath the ruins of what had once been a home. A beam slid loose. Ash spilled downward like snow.
Then a hand pushed through.
Fingers, blistered and trembling, dug into scorched sand. The grip tightened. Stone cracked faintly.
A shoulder followed.
Mournveil rose slowly from the wreckage, dust cascading off him in sheets. What remained of his clothes clung to him in charred strips. His hair hung in burned tangles, skin marked purple and black where impact had kissed bone. A thin line of blood slid from his brow and vanished into the sand.
He stood anyway.
An iron chain lay wrapped around his torso, warped from heat, fused into the rubble. Mournveil looked down at it, breathing once—deep, steady. No glow. No shadow. Just muscle tightening beneath skin.
The chain snapped with a sound like a gunshot.
Metal links scattered across the sand, still hot, still smoking.
A quiet breath escaped him. Almost a laugh.
"Not today," he murmured, voice hoarse but steady. "Not like that."
The desert wind carried something to him then—heat, sharp and unfamiliar. Not Kendrick's fire. Something else. Something wrong.
Mournveil turned.
Across the dunes, the night sky flickered like torn fabric. White light ripped through red flame, bending it, warping it, forcing it aside. Two figures clashed at the center of the storm—one a pillar of raging crimson, the other a burning silhouette crowned with wings of white fire.
Mournveil squinted.
"…Dave?"
The name barely left his lips.
No one heard it over the roar.
Dave staggered backward, heels dragging trenches through molten sand. Every breath scorched his lungs. His skin screamed. White flame clung to him like a living thing, crawling over his arms, tearing heat from the air itself.
Kendrick laughed.
It echoed through the desert—sharp, exhilarated, cruel. Red fire spiraled around him, coiling up his limbs like serpents eager to strike.
"You're burning yourself alive," Kendrick said, lifting a hand. The air shimmered. "You can't hold it."
Dave wiped blood from his mouth. It evaporated before it hit the ground.
"I don't need to," he rasped.
He lunged.
There was no grace left in him. No technique. His movements were wild, desperate, driven by instinct and pain. A punch tore forward, white flame screaming as it met Kendrick's guard.
The impact shattered the ground.
Sand erupted skyward in a ring of glass and debris. Kendrick slid back, boots carving molten lines as he steadied himself. His grin twitched—just slightly.
"Still standing?" he mocked. "Impressive."
Dave didn't answer. His knees buckled for half a second before he forced them straight again. The white fire flared brighter, thinner now, sharper. It hurt. Every second hurt more than the last.
Kendrick stepped in close.
"You copied me," he said, almost curious now. "But you don't understand fire. It consumes. It takes."
He seized Dave by the throat.
Red flame exploded outward, swallowing them both.
Dave screamed—soundless, raw. The white fire fought back, twisting, lashing, but his body shook violently, skin splitting where heat overwhelmed flesh. His feet left the ground. His hands clawed uselessly at Kendrick's arm.
The desert dimmed around them, swallowed by red.
"Strong," Kendrick whispered, leaning close. "But you're not me."
The flames tightened.
Then—
They stopped.
Not faded. Not weakened.
Stopped.
Fire froze in midair, tongues of crimson locked like statues. Heat vanished so abruptly it felt like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe.
Kendrick blinked.
A shadow stood between them.
Mournveil's hand wrapped around Kendrick's wrist.
No aura. No darkness spilling outward. Just fingers closing with absolute certainty.
Kendrick tried to pull away.
Couldn't.
His eyes widened as pressure crushed inward, bone grinding against bone.
"What—" His voice cracked.
Mournveil turned his head slightly, eyes cold, expression still.
"Don't," he said quietly, "touch what's mine."
The punch came next.
There was no wind-up. No glow. No sound beyond flesh meeting flesh.
Kendrick vanished.
The ground detonated where he landed, a crater blooming outward as his body slammed into the sand hard enough to kill the fire in the air itself. Red flames snuffed out instantly, smoke rising where heat had once ruled.
Silence followed.
Dave collapsed.
The white fire unraveled from him like torn wings, flickering, fading. His body pitched forward—
—and was caught.
Mournveil held him easily, one arm supporting his back, the other bracing his shoulders. Dave's head lolled against his chest. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
"I thought…" Dave coughed, blood dark against his lips. "I thought you were gone."
Mournveil looked down at him.
Up close, Dave looked small. Burned. Broken. Still stubborn enough to breathe.
"I made a promise," Mournveil said softly. "I don't break those."
Dave let out a weak laugh that ended in a wince. "Figures."
Behind them, the crater shifted.
Kendrick clawed his way free, coughing violently, fire sputtering weakly along his arms before dying out. Blood streaked down his face, dripping into the sand. His eyes flicked up—
—and locked onto Mournveil.
For the first time, there was no laughter.
Only fear.
"This isn't over," Kendrick spat, voice shaking. "I'll—"
Mournveil looked at him.
Just looked.
Kendrick turned and ran.
Not vanished. Not retreated in flame.
Ran.
His footsteps faded into the dunes, leaving only silence behind.
Mournveil adjusted his grip on Dave and began to walk.
The remains of their home smoldered quietly behind them, beams collapsed, walls reduced to ash. The desert stretched endless and empty ahead, stars peeking through thinning smoke.
Dave stirred weakly.
"…Hey," he muttered. "Next time… maybe warn me before you steal my kill."
Mournveil huffed—a breath that might have been a laugh.
"Rest," he said.
They disappeared into the night together, leaving fire, ruin, and fear behind.