Smoke curled like lazy serpents into the dull gray sky, blurring the line between the earth and the heavens. The scent of ash, sweat, and boiled leather thickened the morning air.
Nestled in the shadow of a dark, brooding forest, an ocean of crimson tents sprawled across the hillside, their pointed tops rising like the tips of spears awaiting battle. They stood in perfect rows, a disciplined sea of red canvas stitched with golden thread, bearing the Flame Emperor's sigil — a burning sunburst cradled by tongues of fire.
The flags danced in the wind, snapping sharply with each gust, defiant against the overcast sky. Each banner bore the Flame Emperor's blazing emblem, its golden fire etched with regal pride upon a background of blood-red and bone-white. To the Flame Emperor's soldiers, it was more than a symbol. It was faith. It was fear. It was the reason their boots stood rooted in foreign soil.
From within the camp rose a chorus of sound — the clang of iron on steel as smiths hammered weapons into readiness, the barked orders of superior soldiers, and the guttural songs of marching men. Fires crackled in iron braziers, casting flickering orange light on grim-faced warriors sharpening their blades or whispering prayers to flame-gods long forgotten. Some tents swayed as healers bustled inside, tending to wounds from skirmishes along the forest edge.
The land itself seemed wary — grass trampled to mud, trees silent in their witness, and the forest holding its breath like a beast coiled in dread. The hills that once sang with birdsong now hummed with the restless heartbeat of an army on the edge of war.
At the center of it all stood the grand pavilion, larger and more ornate than the others, its rich scarlet fabric embroidered with golden flames. Guarded by soldiers in gilded helms, it pulsed like the heart of a living, breathing inferno. That was where the Captain resided.
No one entered unless summoned. And none left unchanged.
Inside, heat pressed down like a second skin. The air reeked of incense — bitter and spicy — meant to hide the scent of blood and old fire.
A heavy war table dominated the center, its surface a mess of scorched maps, dagger scars, and half-drunk goblets. Seated atop it, one leg dangling, was Ser Drummond.
A man of iron presence and lazy menace, he looked more like a weathered mercenary than a decorated officer. His silver-streaked hair was combed back with careless precision, and his eyes — amber and half-lidded — gleamed with the amusement of someone always ten steps ahead. He squinted habitually, like he saw through most people before they even opened their mouths.
His armor gleamed, silver etched with curling flames, elegant but practical. A single deep scratch ran across the chestplate, untouched by polish — left there like a memory or a dare.
A carved ivory pipe sat unlit in one hand. The other drummed his knee slowly, a rhythm only he understood.
The tent's flap stirred.
A young lieutenant stepped inside, shoulders stiff with nerves. He snapped into a salute.
"Captain, a letter from the Emperor."
Drummond tilted his head, taking the scroll with a deliberate slowness.
"Ooh, a letter from His Blazing Grace," he drawled, the words stretching like honey. "Always so punctual."
He cracked the seal without ceremony and unfurled the parchment. His eyes skimmed lazily — until they didn't.
"Hah," he snorted, a flicker of interest in his voice. "A skeleton demon, huh?"
He chuckled — a dry, mirthless sound. The pipe spun once between his fingers.
The lieutenant blinked. "A… skeleton demon, Ser?"
Drummond handed him the scroll without looking up.
"Go on, read it. It's too good to keep to myself."
The lieutenant read in silence, eyes widening by the line.
"It says it appeared in the village of Tar… erupted in fire… bones wreathed in flame… consumed everything in its path—"
Drummond raised an eyebrow. "And then it walked away. Fancy that."
"This has to be a mistake," the lieutenant muttered, lowering the scroll. "A skeleton made of fire? That's a bard's tale."
"Or a cult hallucination," Drummond said lazily, slipping from the table and stretching his limbs with a groan. "You know what they say about grief and smoke — both make people see things that aren't there."
"But the Emperor—he believes it," the lieutenant said.
Drummond gave a half-smile.
"The Emperor believes in results. If something wiped out an entire village… ghost story or not, we're expected to have answers."
He reached for a map on the table, tracing a gloved finger across its rough surface.
"Tar," he said aloud. "Where is that again?"
"West of here, Ser. Near the river forks, beyond the drywood groves."
Drummond's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Ah. That little hole with the wooden bridge and the crooked inn."
"Yes, Ser. Or… it was."
Drummond let out a low whistle.
"The whole place? Gone?"
"Reduced to ash," the lieutenant said. "No survivors. Just scorched earth, collapsed homes, and blackened bones. The scouts said it looked like the gods dropped a sun on it."
"Dramatic," Drummond murmured, then his tone turned thoughtful. "But if it's true… and if this skeleton demon is more than smoke and soldier gossip…"
He trailed off, gaze turning sharp.
"Well," he finished, "then this isn't just another rebel hunt, is it?"
"What are your orders, Ser?" the lieutenant asked quietly, his voice steady but his shoulders tense.
Drummond's lazy smile returned — slow, cold, the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. With a grunt, he slipped from the edge of the war table and stretched, bones cracking audibly in the quiet tent.
He reached for a steaming cup on the table and took a sip.
A grimace twisted across his face. "Too hot," he muttered.
He exhaled softly over the cup.
With a sharp crackle, frost bloomed across the surface of the tea. In a heartbeat, it solidified into a cloudy chunk of ice. He stared at it, annoyed but faintly amused.
"Ugh. Look at that," he muttered, lips twitching into a chuckle. "I overdid it again."
The lieutenant didn't flinch. He'd seen it too many times. Everyone in the Drummondsquad had. You didn't serve under Ser Drummond the IceCaptain without learning that frostbite could arrive mid-conversation.
His control over ice magic was the stuff of legend — whispered in taverns, etched into mercenary songs. They said his presence dropped battlefields into winter, that blood froze before it even hit the ground. He had shattered enemy lines with glaciers, sealed cavalry charges in walls of hail, and ended sieges with a single, bladed blizzard.
And yet here he was, freezing his tea like a cranky uncle in a tent.
"Are you going to Tar, Ser?" Lieutenant Cephus asked, cautiously.
Drummond arched an eyebrow, but his gaze drifted lazily to the smoke curling above his unlit pipe.
"Me?" he said, as if surprised. "Personally? Oh, no. No, no. I'm far too busy in here, freezing beverages and deciphering madman letters."
Cephus cleared his throat. "But the Emperor—"
"The Emperor has a long history of turning smoke into monsters," Drummond said, waving a hand. "I'm not marching across half the frontier because some peasant saw fire through tears."
He fell silent then, watching the candlelight flicker against the tent walls. The quiet stretched long.
Then he spoke again, without turning around.
"What's your name, Lieutenant?"
Cephus blinked. "Cephus, Ser."
Drummond gave a faint nod. "Right. Cephus."
Now he turned fully, studying the younger man with mild interest — not as if he were seeing him for the first time, but as if deciding if he'd bother remembering him at all.
"Can you use magic?"
"Yes, Ser."
"What's your attribute?"
"Wind. I specialize in movement spells. Pressure bursts, speed enhancement, and cutting air blades."
Drummond's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a glint of approval behind the half-lidded gaze.
"Good," he murmured. "You'll need speed if you ever plan to outrun fire."
He stepped over to the war map and tapped it with a gloved finger.
"Choose fifteen soldiers," he said flatly. "Good ones. No wet-behind-the-ears squires. Men who've seen war — and stayed alive through it."
Cephus straightened. "Yes, Ser. For a scouting patrol?"
"You're going to Tar," Drummond replied, unrolling the map further. His voice was casual, but his eyes didn't leave the page.
Cephus hesitated. "Me, Ser?"
Drummond turned slowly.
"Who else would I be talking to?" His tone had dropped like falling snow — soft, but sharp enough to cut skin.
Cephus snapped to attention. "Understood, Ser."
Drummond continued, voice low and even now.
"I want confirmation. This 'Flame Walker' — whatever it is — I want to know if it's real. And if it is, I want to know what it can do. How it moves. How it kills."
"And if I find it?" Cephus asked. His throat was dry.
Drummond shrugged, as if it were a coin toss.
"Kill it if you can. If you can't, then run. Just make sure someone lives long enough to tell me exactly what you saw."
"Yes, Ser."
Drummond turned his back again, tapping the map idly.
"Pack light. Move fast. I want a report within five days. Six if you're dragging bodies back."
Cephus took a step toward the flap but paused when Drummond spoke again.
"Oh, and Lieutenant?"
He turned. "Yes, Ser?"
Drummond still didn't look up. His voice was calm — too calm.
"If it turns out this skeleton story's true — if it walks and burns and leaves ash behind — don't try to be a hero."
Cephus blinked. "Ser?"
Drummond finally looked up. His eyes were cold now, no humor in them.
"I've seen what fire like that can do," he said, voice quieter now. "It doesn't care about rank. It doesn't care how fast your wind is. It just… takes."
Cephus gave a single nod, then exited swiftly, boots crunching over the frost-rimed floor as he vanished into the pale morning.
Alone again, Drummond sat back on the edge of the table and finally lit his pipe. He took a long, thoughtful draw, letting the smoke curl slowly into the tent's dim air.
A strange silence settled around him — thick, waiting.
"A burning skeleton," he muttered, staring into the swirl of smoke.
He exhaled, and the vapor crystallized midair, breaking into a slow drift of tiny snowflakes that glittered briefly — then melted as they fell.