The Spark That Should Not Be
Thane — Flamebound Warrior
The northern slope was steeper than it looked from below.
Thane dug his boots into the frost-packed earth, ascending carefully while the rest of his scouting unit fanned out across the surrounding terrain. The wind cut sharp against his face, carrying with it the same metallic tang of disturbed magic that had lingered all morning. His flame-sense thrummed beneath his ribs, steady but tense, like a horse waiting for a command it couldn't yet hear.
Something was ahead.
Too close.
Too quiet.
He didn't like quiet. Not this kind.
"Commander!" a soldier called from farther up the incline. "Tracks here!"
Thane quickened his pace. By the time he reached the soldier's position, the man was crouched low, brushing his gloved fingers over a series of faint impressions in the frost.
Not boots.
Not hooves.
Something lighter.
Thane knelt beside him.
The prints were shallow, nearly invisible—whoever had made them walked lightly, weighted more by intention than body. And the frost around each indentation was melted at the center, then rimmed with ice again at the edges.
Cold and warm.
Shadow and heat.
His heart dropped into a slower, heavier rhythm.
The soldier glanced up. "Commander… there's no sign of a beast. These aren't claw marks."
Thane didn't respond. He ran a thumb over one print. The ground was brittle. But at the center—
A faint warmth pulsed upward.
His flame-sense flared.
Suddenly. Violently.
A sharp ache shot across his sternum, winding through his ribs like glowing wire. His breath hitched, and for a moment the world tilted sideways.
"Commander?" the soldier asked, alarmed.
Thane forced a slow exhale. "It's nothing."
It wasn't nothing.
His flame only reacted that way when something powerful came near—powerful enough to jolt the shard within him, to quicken it like a second heartbeat.
But this wasn't fear.
This was…
Recognition.
He rose to his feet, wiping frost from his gloves. "Fan out," he ordered. "The trail leads north. Stay within calling distance."
As they moved, Thane lingered a moment longer, staring at the prints. He didn't know why, but something in him urged caution. Not the caution of a soldier facing a threat.
The caution of someone approaching a precipice.
The higher he climbed, the stronger the sensation became.
At first it was a soft hum beneath his ribs, like a vibration too low to fully feel. Then it grew—a warmth expanding outward in a steady pulse, melting the frost beneath his boots with faint sizzles. His breath fogged in the cold air, but the space directly around him seemed slightly warmer.
He exhaled sharply. "Keep yourself together," he muttered.
It didn't listen.
The flame inside him rarely misbehaved, but today it seemed agitated, pacing the boundaries of his chest like an animal aware of a storm approaching. It pulled him forward, urging him toward something he could not see.
He hated when his magic acted on instinct. He had spent years mastering it, controlling it, containing it. Fire was only useful when it obeyed. When it resisted, it could consume just as easily as it could protect.
And the last time it had reacted like this—
Thane cut that thought off before it could form fully.
Not now.
Not here.
A faint rustle snapped his attention upward.
A soldier stepped out from between two pines. "Nothing to the west, Commander," he reported. "But there's a disturbance in the brush to the northeast. Something moved through not long ago."
Thane nodded once. "Show me."
They moved quickly, weaving between the trees, frost crunching underfoot. The air thickened again, heavy with magic and cold. Thane brushed a hand against a low-hanging branch—and froze.
The bark beneath his palm was warm.
Something had touched this very tree.
Someone.
This warmth wasn't like his flame—sharp, fierce, direct. It was residual, diffused, faint as a fading heartbeat. But it told him enough.
Someone with fire-touched magic had been here.
"Commander?" the soldier asked uncertainly.
Thane let his hand fall. "The trail continues north."
He didn't say how he knew.
He didn't need to.
His magic dragged him like an unseen tether.
The trees thinned as they neared the ridge crest. The air stung sharper here, the cold biting enough to numb exposed skin. But beneath it all, that pulse continued—steady, insistent, threading through his senses with growing clarity.
It felt like walking toward a storm he had no desire to escape.
It felt like walking toward something ancient.
Something waiting.
Then, without warning—
A shockwave rippled through the air.
Thane staggered, catching himself on a rock as heat tore through his chest.
Too much heat.
Too sudden.
His flame-sense roared awake.
A glare of red danced behind his eyelids, twisting into shapes he didn't recognize. Not flame patterns. Not battle instincts. Something else.
Someone else.
A presence.
He sucked in a breath. The world swayed.
The soldier rushed to his side. "Commander! What is—"
"Stay back," Thane rasped, voice cracking under the strain.
His palms burned. Not externally—internally. As if fire churned inside his bones, pushing outward against skin and muscle.
And beneath that fire—
A second sensation.
Cold.
Silken.
Sharp as a whisper made of glass.
Shadow.
He had never felt shadow magic so clearly before. Never felt it like pressure against his lungs, like cool breath brushing the inner walls of his mind, like a hand resting gently over the fire in his chest.
He gritted his teeth. "Someone's—close."
Not someone.
Not fully flame.
Not fully shadow.
But a flicker of both.
A resonance waiting for a spark.
He braced one hand against a tree and forced his flame-sense to steady. But the harder he fought it, the more the sensation flared—heat and cold surging up his spine in equal measure.
Then—
A sound.
Barely audible.
Like footsteps crunching lightly in the frost.
Human.
Not beast.
Not creature.
Human.
Thane straightened, breath misting in pale plumes. "Someone's here."
The soldier blanched. "Commander, if it's a Shadow Mage—"
"It's not an enemy until it proves itself one."
"But the Council—"
"The Council isn't here."
The man swallowed hard but obeyed.
Thane stepped forward, scanning the trees. Every breath of wind carried more of that strange, layered magic—flame warmth, shadow chill—a blend so wrong it sent goosebumps across his arms.
He drew his sword.
Not because he planned to strike.
But because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.
Another whisper of footsteps brushed the air.
The trees ahead parted slightly in the wind.
Thane's flame surged.
There—
Beyond the frost-laden trunks—
A flicker of movement.
A presence.
A silhouette—
A figure in black.
But before he could see clearly, before he could take a step closer—
A shock of cold wind exploded through the trees, scattering frost like shards of glass. The figure vanished—slipping away between the shadows as though swallowed by them.
Gone.
Completely gone.
The flame inside Thane flared in frustration.
He blinked hard, chest heaving. His voice came out rough. "What was that?"
The soldier looked pale. "A ghost?"
"No," Thane murmured. "Ghosts don't leave warmth behind."
He lowered his sword slowly, staring at the space where the figure had been.
A part of him wanted to follow.
A part of him felt he already had.
When he finally turned away, the ember beneath his ribs throbbed again—soft, insistent, impossible to ignore.