His grip tightens. Something fragile and tightly coiled inside my chest begins to strain. It is not rage, I do not allow myself rage. It is fear, thin and sharp and humiliating. The familiar kind I have trained myself to breathe through, to endure until it passes.
But tonight it does not pass. The alley presses in. His hand is iron around my wrist. The knowledge that no one will comesettles heavily in my lungs. And I know I can’t let that keep going.
And before I can think better of it, before I can temper the instinct the way I always do, a single desperate plea forms in the deepest part of me.
Please. Make this stop.
The world does not explode so much as it tears open.
Heat surges between us in a turbulent column of white-gold flame that erupts from Garruk’s chest with such ferocity that I stumble backward, wrenching my wrist free as the air itself seems to ignite. The sound that leaves his mouth is brief and distorted, swallowed by the roar of infernal fire.
Light floods the alley, brighter than any forge, brighter than noon. For one suspended, incomprehensible heartbeat, I think I am the one burning.
I shield my face, expecting agony, expecting my skin to blister and split, but the heat curves around me, searing the space without touching it. It consumes him.
Where Garruk stood, there is only fire, not the orange flicker of hearth flame, but something alive and searing and impossibly pure. The blaze devours him in seconds, leaving behind nothing but drifting ash that collapses inward as though the man himself has been erased.
My breath comes in shallow pulls. I stare at my hands, half-expecting to see flame dancing across my palms. I had wished it to stop. I had thought it, felt it, with a desperation sharp enough to draw blood.
And the world answered. A tremor moves through me, deeper than shock.
What have I done?
My heart hammers against my ribs, yet I feel no burn on my skin. The flames do not fade. They gather and bend. Theyrise upward as if drawn by an unseen will, curling and shaping themselves into something vast within the smoke.
The fear shifts then, no longer of Garruk, but of what has taken his place.
A silhouette forms.
Tall beyond reason. Broad-shouldered. Crowned with sweeping horns that curve back from a powerful skull. Wings unfurl slowly from his back, not feathered, but wrought of blackened flame that moves like smoke given structure.
He steps forward, and the fire parts around him as though in reverence.
His skin is obsidian, etched with faint fissures that glow from within like embers beneath stone. His eyes find mine, and I forget how to breathe. They burn molten gold. Focused and ancient.
He regards me with a stillness that is far more terrifying than the flames that heralded him. I can feel the weight of his expectation, the certainty that I will recoil, scream, collapse.
Perhaps I should. Instead, I feel something else entirely. Relief.
The absence of Garruk’s grip is so sudden, so absolute, that it leaves me dizzy. The space he occupied is empty. This creature, this impossible, abyssal being, ended it without hesitation.
My body trembles, but not from horror. The fear that had been suffocating me moments ago has been replaced by a quiet, bewildered gratitude.
He saved me. The thought arrives whole and undeniable.
His gaze sharpens as if he senses the shift within me. The flames around him dim slightly, coiling closer to his enormous frame.
I swallow, my throat dry, and force myself to speak.
“Thank you.”
The words are barely more than breath, yet they seem to strike him harder than any scream could have.
His expression alters, not softening, but fracturing into something like stunned recognition. The air between us tightens, as though a cord has been drawn taut.
Then it snaps into place.
Heat slams into my chest from within, burrowing beneath my ribs and spreading through my veins in a rush that steals the air from my lungs. I gasp, staggering as something ancient and unyielding locks onto me with terrifying precision.
