Reiner opened his heavy eyelids slowly, his vision blurry and his body aching as though it had been dragged across time itself. He lay on a straw bed in a dimly lit hut, its walls patched with rotting wood and crude fabric. A musty, sour stench hung in the air—damp earth mixed with sweat, old blood, and the faint reek of smoke. It clawed at his nostrils and twisted his gut.
A beam of sunlight stabbed through a hole in the roof, catching dust motes as they danced lazily in the stillness. Shadows clung to the corners like ghosts.
His throat was dry, voice raspy. "How did I get here?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He tried to sit up, but a sharp bolt of pain spiked through the back of his skull. He winced, shutting his eyes tight.
"Good. You're awake," a deep voice rumbled from the shadows.
Reiner spun toward the sound, adrenaline flooding his veins. A figure sat in the darkest corner of the hut, motionless and watching.
"Who are you?" Reiner asked, his voice cautious, tinged with fear.
"I'm your savior," the man replied. "But you can call me… Belanor."
The stranger stepped into the light.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-darkened skin and an aura of seasoned danger. He wore a long, weather-worn coat of dark maroon leather, stitched with battle scars and ash. A thick utility belt cinched his waist, holding pouches and the curved hilt of a strange, foreign weapon. His gloved hands rested calmly by his side, but there was tension in his posture—like a blade ready to be drawn.
His armor was mismatched but functional—copper-toned bracers covered his forearms, scuffed and dented by war. A leather strap crossed his chest diagonally, securing a satchel behind his back. His black hair was swept back in a soldier's cut, and his eyes, sharp and focused, held a quiet storm of intent.
Everything about him whispered of deserts crossed, beasts slain, and truths buried beneath sand and bone.
Belanor looked at Reiner with a faint, unreadable smile.
"You died, Reiner," he said. "But something brought you back. I was there when the fire swallowed the sky—and I chose to follow the ashes."
"I died…?" Reiner echoed, the words slow, thick with disbelief.
He turned his gaze inward, and suddenly it all came crashing back like a violent tide.
The soldiers dragging him and his father through the village square. The spit and stones of angry villagers. The crowd chanting for blood. His father's feet twitching as the noose snapped tight. The screaming. The smoke.
And then—the fire.
That horrible, searing fire.
The memory of it clawed into his mind: the unbearable heat wrapping around his neck like a collar of agony, the sensation of his skin peeling back, the light pouring from inside his chest like he was being hollowed out.
Grief hit him like a hammer—his father's death mingling with the memory of his own body igniting in front of the mob.
He had burned. He remembered that much.
So why was he alive?
"I remember you…" he whispered, narrowing his eyes at the man. "From the gallows. You were there, weren't you? I saw you in the crowd."
"Yes," Belanor replied simply. No excuses. No lies.
"What happened to me?" Reiner's voice cracked. "I was burning and then… nothing. Why am I still breathing?"
He clutched his chest, half-expecting flames to burst through again. But there was only skin. Sweat. A frantic heartbeat.
Belanor looked at him long and hard, as if weighing how much truth Reiner could carry.
"You burned, Reiner. But you didn't die like a man dies. You changed. Transformed into something… elemental. A thing made of bone and flame."
Reiner shook his head slowly. "No… no, that can't be—"
"You don't remember it. I'm not surprised. Most who change the first time… don't."
Belanor stepped closer, his voice grim.
"You turned into a skeleton wreathed in fire. A walking curse. The soldiers tried to run. Pontius drew his blade. The villagers—"
He paused, letting the silence hang.
"You killed them, Reiner. All of them. Burned through steel. Flesh. Wood. Even the stone cracked beneath your fury. Nothing survived within reach of your fire."
Reiner staggered backward, hitting the wall behind him. His knees buckled, and he slid to the floor.
"No… no, I didn't—" he whispered.
He could see their faces now. Not as enemies. As people. Scared. Running. Burning.
Children clinging to mothers. Soldiers crying for help. The same villagers who had once offered him bread, now turned to ash by his hand.
"I didn't mean to…" he choked out, tears stinging his eyes. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't want—"
He clutched at his head, trembling, his breath shallow. Guilt tore through him like glass.
Belanor didn't offer comfort. He stood there, unflinching.
"Wanting doesn't matter anymore," he said quietly. "What matters is what you do next."
Reiner raised his head slowly, his voice trembling.
"What am I?" he asked. "Am I… a monster?"
Belanor's lips curved into a faint, almost pitying smile.
"No," he said, "you're a human… but a human that is host to a demon."
The words hit Reiner like a hammer. He blinked, unable to form a response. Ademon? The idea felt absurd. And yet… something inside him stirred at the word. A low pulse in his chest. Something watching.
"You don't remember," Belanor continued, "but I've studied these things. Lesser demons—those summoned by witches—possess their hosts, grant them power. But they don't manifest physically. They don't walk. They don't burn villages to ash."
He began to pace slowly, each step deliberate.
"What I saw… that skeleton—flames erupting from bone, a wrath that felt ancient—that wasn't a lesser demon. No. That was something greater. A high-ranking one. A master of fire."
Reiner's mouth was dry. "I never made a pact with anything," he said. "I don't even understand magic, let alone demons."
Belanor stopped, watching him closely.
"Do you have fire magic?"
Reiner nodded, hesitantly. "Since I was a child. It started with sparks. Small ones. But over time, it grew stronger. My father and I—we kept it secret. The empire kills people like me. He made me swear never to show it."
Belanor exhaled, almost in frustration.
"Then you've been playing with flames on top of a powder barrel," he muttered. "This changes everything."
He turned to face Reiner fully, voice sharper now.
"That skeleton form—the destruction you caused—that's not your greatest problem anymore. It was brutal, yes, but isolated. What worries me more is the Flame Emperor."
Reiner looked up, confused.
"Flame… Emperor?"
"Word of what happened in Tar will spread," Belanor said grimly. "The Emperor will hear of it—your fire magic, the demonic manifestation. He will want to know what you are. And he'll send everything he has to find out. Soldiers. Assassins. Mages. And not the kind who ask questions."
A heavy silence hung in the air.
"Then I'm already dead," Reiner said bitterly.
"No," Belanor replied. "Not yet."
He stepped forward and extended a calloused hand.
"I can help you. Teach you. Protect you. But more importantly, I can introduce you to others—mages like me. People who have been fighting the empire for years."
Reiner stared at the hand, his thoughts spinning like a storm.
He didn't trust this man. Not fully. But he had no one else. No home. No father. No answers.
"What choice do I have?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He took Belanor's hand.
"Good," the mage said with a small nod. "Then we head west."
Reiner frowned. "What's west?"
Belanor turned toward the hut's warped wooden door, sunlight pouring in through a crack in the roof like a spotlight.
"To the mountains of Vandera," he said. "There's a mage there. An old one. She can help you master your fire magic—and suppress the demon inside you. If you want to live, truly live, she's your only hope."
Reiner followed Belanor to the door, limping slightly. His legs were stiff, unused. Belanor pushed open the creaking wooden door, its hinges groaning like something waking from a long slumber. Reiner followed, shielding his eyes against the sudden shift in light.
Outside, the forest pressed in close—dense, ancient, and damp with the breath of early autumn. The moss-covered roof of the hut blended almost seamlessly into the green canopy above, as if the forest itself had tried to reclaim the structure. Fallen leaves scattered across the grass, their vibrant reds and yellows whispering of the season's slow decay.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of wet wood and rotting foliage, but beneath it all drifted something sharper—faint, acrid, and unmistakable.
"Smoke," Reiner murmured, nostrils flaring.
..........
They stood on the edge of a ruined village. The woods stretched behind them, but before them lay only scorched ground. Burnt husks of homes still smoldered. The skeletons of wagons. A melted sword stuck in a tree.
"Tar," Reiner breathed. "Gods…"
"You did this," Belanor said bluntly. "And if we don't move fast, they'll be back to sift through what's left."
Reiner looked down at his trembling hands.
"I don't know if I can control it," he whispered.
"You don't have to," Belanor said. "Not yet. Just learn to survive. The rest will come later."
Together, they stepped out of the hut and into a world set aflame by Reiner's own hands—toward uncertain mountains, ancient magic, and the growing storm of a demon's awakening.