Chương 82: Its Alive

The glow of dawn shone through the balcony window. A door creaked open and Edmund stepped out with a yawn, dressed in nothing but black trousers and a towel draped over his neck. From the sofa Whiskey jumped down to the wooden floor and with soundless steps came up to meet him. The cat stretched its back and with a soft purr circled his legs.

"Good morning," Edmund said without looking down. He drew a hand through his wet hair and walked up to the kitchen as the cat jumped up on the counter. He filled the kettle quietly, mindful of the others, and set it on the stove, preparing a filter while Whiskey sat expectantly, eyes trained on him.

"Just a minute," Edmund said. He pulled open a drawer, retrieved a round metal container and emptied the bland contents into a waiting bowl, a sticky mash of fish from one of the coastal strongholds no doubt. The bowl barely touched the counter before Whiskey dove in. Edmund returned to his room, leaving the door ajar. His room was split into two. The left side was simple and colorless. A mirror over a side table, a stand with his gear and a bed the size for two, though only one side showed signs of being used.

The other side was cluttered with equipment. Wires, cogs and gears, some interconnected into half-finished gadgets, all fighting for space on a desk and the surrounding floor. The equipment was clean, though the bronze had discolored into hues of blue, betraying the fact that they hadn't been used for years. Edmund opened the wardrobe. On one side, neatly folded black clothing. On the other, sealed cardboard boxes.

If you lingered, if you leaned close, you could still catch the faint scent of jasmine drifting from the colorful garments inside. He chose a white shirt and a black vest and studied his reflection. His torso was a map of old battles. Scars in the shape of bite marks, long slashes running from his shoulder to navel. He put on his white shirt and drew his dark hair backwards.

From the cupboard, he took a small pocket watch and held it for a moment in silence, brushing his thumb against the intricate filigree, then slipped it into a breast pocket. On cue, the kettle outside whistled. He moved out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him and began preparing the coffee. He poured himself a cup of the steaming liquid, walked down the stairs and waited for a moment. A newspaper and a brown envelope pushed through the letter slot.

Edmund frowned and picked up the letter, studying the exquisite handwriting. To Wretch the Rat-Eater He tucked the envelope into his pocket and walked back up the stairs, sitting down on the sofa with Whiskey snuggling up in his lap, rolling onto its back with a content purr. Some time later, a door creaked open and Wretch emerged in an oversized white shirt. Bluish-gray bags under his eyes. The collar of the shirt was V-shaped.

"It's good to have another early bird back home," Edmund said, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Sleep well?"

"I couldn't fall asleep. Still woke up early. It's strange, I felt so much more relaxed outside the walls than in here," Wretch said with a yawn. His eyebrows had grown back a little and the baldness had turned to stubble. Edmund nodded.

"Coffee in the kettle if you'd like." Wretch poured himself a mug and sat down next to the captain.

"Any news about the Gulschaks?" he said while tapping at the ceramic mug with his claws.

"There was an explosion in a stronghold to the east and a cut railroad to the south," Edmund said.

"I can feel it. I'll meet them soon, and I will be ready." Edmund gave a crooked smile.

"Nice and easy, son. Are you going for some morning training?"

"Yes, the exercise settles the ache, if only a little. And I have a few changes planned," Wretch said as he stretched his neck.

"Elenya promised a spar now that she got her arm and foot back."

"What changes have you been cooking up?" Edmund said.

"Vishnii gave me a lot to work with," Wretch said.

"I took its claws, but these eyes are antiquated." Edmund flipped through the newspaper, his face obscured by the pages.

"I'm thinking of renting a camera. Group picture. It's Elenya's birthday." Wretch dragged a claw over his scalp, suppressing another yawn.

"I guess I'll wear a hat."

"A hunter needs a trusty hat. Besides, birthdays mean cake," Edmund said. Wretch gave a faint smile.

"I've never had a cake." It was quiet for a moment before Edmund broke the silence.

"Elenya told me, on the way to the healer the other day." Wretch gave a questioning look.

"About what?"

"That forest with the dreams," Edmund said as he turned another page.

"Ohh, that," Wretch said and inspected his claws.

"I lived the life of Elenya and the days she became an Ember. It was tough. I lived like that dog, too, but that was in the report." Edmund nodded.

"She told me about your dream too." Wretch stopped and slowly turned to the captain with his black eyes.

"I am sorry, son," Edmund said from the other side of the newspaper.

"I truly am."

"It doesn't matter anymore. I will just keep on climbing upwards. All I need is up there. Strength against our enemies. My father. The answers to what happened to this land," Wretch said. Edmund lowered his newspaper and gazed directly at his scout.

"I know you are the Collector of Wounds. But there will be enemies and horrors waiting even a month from now." They locked eyes as he continued.

"It takes most people years to reach Fireling. For me, decades." Wretch didn't look away, studying the face of his captain. He was rugged, with sharp features that exuded control and calm. The face of a man who had weathered turmoil, strife, and defeat. They sat like that for a moment. The only sound came from the purring cat in Edmund's lap.

"I feel like if I slow down," Wretch said finally, "I'll lose something." Edmund gave a smile. One of the usual reassuring ones where the edges of his eyes wrinkled.

"You always lose something, I suppose…"

"But at the end of all that revenge and ambition, there is a life, and that life has to be worth living." Wretch blinked, processing the words.

"I… I need some time to think about that." Edmund stood.

"That's a good start. You won't be happy with me, but I'll decline any missions for at least two months. We've been through enough." Wretch frowned but didn't speak.

"I will take my morning walk to the bureau. You get on with the training," Edmund said as he pulled his coat and hat from the clothing rack.

"If your dream is to go far, no one will care about how long it took you to get there. They will only care that you did. See you for lunch. I might even join you in the training room." The captain disappeared down the stairs. Wretch listened intently to the heavy steps. When the door shut one floor below, he sighed. Whiskey meowed, and he picked him up, looking into the cat's eyes. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"You feel it too, don't you?" he whispered.

"That you need to protect it. Or someone takes it." The cat answered with a long, solemn meow. Wretch got dressed and walked down into the training room. He worked out with only a pair of black pants, lest he wreck his clothes entirely. He placed the black cross, Longing for Penance, in his palm. It wasn't much bigger than an earring at the moment. Outside the walls, leaving it had not been an option.

It was undeniably powerful, but its drawback, a longing for the final rest, was something he wasn't sure he could afford. Not anymore. He could feel something. A pressure was closing in around him, as if the air was growing thinner, refusing to perfuse his lungs fully. Smother it. You killed for a chance like this. Don't you dare stop now. He burst into movement, the cross elongating to the size of a sword. He whirled into a storm of flashing claws and Blessed steel. Imaginary foes charged him by the dozen.

He eviscerated the ethereal opposition, slicing their throats and impaling their guts. The Blinking Blade burned into his free hand, and he threw it, impaling a wooden dummy to the side. An imaginary strike shot towards his neck. He spun, gripping the cross as it burned into the size of a halberd. It impaled a masked opponent in the side. The unreal enemy quivering and begging. He stood panting on the stone, sweat dripping from his nose. The relief he sought didn't come. That used to calm me.

Why doesn't it work anymore? A mirror stood to the side, leaning against the wall. It was the one from his room. He'd moved it to better see his form but also to escape his own reflection. It was staring at him now, the thing in the mirror. He straightened his back and walked closer, studying the beast. Two fur-covered claws so sharp they couldn't touch human skin without risking drawing blood. Scaled skin on his torso. Black eyes and a whipping tail. Sensitive ears and nose.

A panting tongue that was far too long behind sharp teeth. And beneath it all, strengthened bones. He glanced at his flame. So many different forms crouched before it. Claws and fangs yearning for him to use them. In the back stood Vishnii. The only Blaze among them. He reached for the information he knew was his. Wretch, Collector of Wounds Fireling Times Kindled: 10 Regeneration: Consume flame to restore broken flesh. Purging rot and poison. Greater wounds demand greater cost.

Flesh Stealer: Consume flame to reshape the body and take the form of any blessed you have slain and devoured, the change can be overwritten only by a new shape. Each change decreases your maximum flame permanently. Form Weave: Weave flame into temporary flesh. A fast, unstable, and temporary change from the Blessed forms at your disposal. Costs a large amount of flame to use and to maintain. But that wasn't all. He had weapons besides his flesh.

The black cross adorned by imagery of death, charged with the lives of others. So far all he had been able to give it was a dozen rats in the Lows. Longing for Penance Charges: 12/100 Expend flame to change the size of the weapon. As a creature is killed by the cross, a charge is added. Expend flame to deplete all charges, launching them outwards as projectiles. Carrying this item will instill a growing longing for the final rest. And the hilt-less dagger of shimmering metal he'd carried from Ember onwards.

Blinking Blade Piercing your own eye and injecting flame will bind this item to you. If bound, the item may be charged with flame. The blade can be called back through visualization, returning to your person by expending the charge. He had kindled enough. As far as he knew, any challenge could push him over the edge. Up into a tier only tread by the few. But he had to be ready. All right, Vishnii. I'll need more than your claws. The hound by his fire was four meters tall and covered in long fur and red eyes.

With a burst of concentration, he focused on his pupils and the ones of the hound, hidden beneath the stitched-together eyes. Refreshing torment scraped against his left eye, and the vision of the thing in the mirror blurred. Drops of blood ran down his cheek like tears. A few moments later, he blinked, and the world grew sharper, seeped in more color than he remembered. He moved closer to the reflection, examining his new eyes. The sclera was still pitch dark, but now a red pupil adorned its center.

Better than expected. I thought dogs had bad eyesight, but perhaps a Blaze is beyond such reasoning, he thought, trailing his gaze over the training room with one eye closed. He moved on to the other eye, meticulously guiding the flame to where he wanted it. After a minute, he breathed out, wiping blood from his cheeks. I can still grow, plenty of flame left. So far in his mastery of Flesh Weave, he had only four forms that were usable in battle.

The many human-armed form that made him look like an insect, incredibly agile and quick but didn't really pack a punch. The two massive dark arms of Jonah, which were slow, cost a river of flame but were destructive. The crab claw with a shell as tough as it was unwieldy. And finally, the two simple arm-like blades of bone, perfect when in a pinch. These had made him survive the unrelenting threats of the wilds, but against a Blaze, they'd been nothing more than gimmicks. How about we try to add another one?

His concentration turned to the only Blaze around his fire. Vishnii. He held out his arm and gave the flame a soft command. It sprang through his body, and with a burning sensation, his two regular arms shuddered. In an instant, they grew bulbous, flesh wrapping around itself, and the claws grew massive and long hair flowed down in plumes. His spine cracked, and muscles grew large as a mane burst from his hunched neck and barren scalp. He didn't dare add the many eyes, leaving black patches in the fur.

It was difficult working around the more intricate anatomy of the optical nerves running all around the hound's body. But it was doable. After a moment, he stopped and breathed out. A form not too large but packed with muscles on his upper body. But he could feel it. It was strong. Before his flame leaked further, he pushed even further, letting the hound's features creep down to his torso and up his neck. In theory, he should be able to entirely turn into the beast, if only for a moment.

A shock jolted through him, an urge to tear and rip mixed with nausea, muddling his mind. The concentration escaped him for a moment. The form shuddered and the mane fell off his neck. The changes reverted with a squirm. The massive claws deformed back into the miniature version of themselves as he fell to the floor. Damn, doing the full upper body is still too hard. I have to isolate my own brain or I'll lose control. Just that brief change had cost him a tenth of his maximum flame.

Even if he got it to work, it would only last him a few breaths. But with that kind of power, perhaps that was all he would ever need. Heavy steps came from the stairs as Wretch lay there panting, sifting through the whispers that always accompanied the lower levels of flame. The sputtering hisses had only grown stronger since his ascension. The sputtered ravings more clear, more intelligible, like a hissed conversation held in the next room. He couldn't help but wonder what they spoke of.

Astrid, wearing a black dress, opened the door with a yawn. In her hands was a pot so large she had to hold it with both arms, clutching it close to her chest. In the cracked soil stood a sapling with pale bark and a single withered purple leaf hanging low in defeat. She raised an eyebrow at the sight. A half-naked man with hairy arms and claws sprawled on the ground.

"Good morning," he said, casting her a glance.

"Isn't that one of the trees from the mist?" She stared at him for a moment.

"Wretchy, I need your help." Wretch sat up and looked at her, drying the sweat from his forehead against the back of his palm. He looked at the tiny healer standing there with her potted plant.

"You want to ascend, don't you?" Wretch said. Astrid placed the pot on the floor and squinted her eyes at him.

"How did you know?" Wretch stretched, the conversation pushing away the mad whispers that otherwise filled the silence.

"You're hard to read, you don't show much emotion. But with time, I've been able to pick up the clues in your features. The way you look at Elenya and me. You've even started training down here late at night. You're afraid to be left behind," Wretch said in a way that was matter of fact, a style of conversation typically reserved for Astrid. She flinched, slumping down into a seated position over the half-withered plant in the pot before her.

"It's more that I fear becoming a burden," she said with a nod, extending a hand. Her eyes took on a fiery shine and the plant squirmed, the stem extending and the cracked bark healing with newfound vigor. However something was wrong. It pulled back from the environment, the single leaf shivering in displeasure.

"I'm not like you and Elenya. I don't excel at combat," she continued.

"But what then? How can I catch the curiosity of the Flame?" Wretch nodded towards the plant.

"Maybe growing that thing is enough?" Astrid shook her head.

"I've experimented with the soil. It prefers the highly acidic, and from the looks of it," she said, examining the plant with tender fingers, "an aversion to sunlight."

"I know for certain that I have a different Flame than you. But I wanted to ask, you who went from Ember to the peak of Fireling in half a year…"

"What am I missing?" Wretch stood up and stretched, taking in the healer with his inhuman pupils. The Flame was fickle, at least his was. Urging him for recklessness and emotional outbursts, at least he thought it did. Or at least it rewarded him for it. After a moment, he settled for an answer.

"Faith and Emotions, Astrid, that's what you lack."

"Faith?" she answered, flashing a look of disagreement that only those closest to her could spot. Wretch cleared his throat and placed his palms on the floor, flipping up into a handstand and began a series of struggling and wobbly steps.

"How do you see the Flame, how do you see us Blessed?" Astrid squinted her eyes at his physical exercise as she spoke.

"The rules and stipulations are clear in my head." Wretch, having made it a few steps, clicked his tongue and flipped up onto his feet with impressive dexterity.

"Perhaps. But sometimes, when I'm covered in blood, I can almost peer through the veil. What made those rules?" Astrid, having caressed the struggling stem, froze. They looked at each other for a moment.

"It's alive," Astrid said so quietly it was almost a whisper.

"The flame is alive." Wretch gave a toothy smile.

"I feel like it is. And it peers through my mind, responding to my will, my beliefs, my emotions." Astrid peered into the distance, the gears in her head no doubt turning at a pace few could match.

"I have to show it what I want, not what I expect."

"That's the only thing I can think of," Wretch said, walking past her, seated on the floor, and brushing a hand against her shoulder.

"Besides, you will never be a burden to me."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, swiveling her head towards him. He only waved a hand without turning.

"What do I know, I'm not a prophet. Just don't listen to the whispers. Mine have grown a little too loud for my liking." The door shut, and he left the healer to her own thoughts.