Reflections of a Man Who Has Walked Through Fire

The world was in ruins—a desolate wasteland scarred by war. Craters pockmarked the landscape, vast gouges carved into the earth as if by the hands of giants. Thousands of bodies lay scattered, twisted and broken, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. A river of thick, crimson liquid sluggishly crawled through the remains, dragging the stench of death wherever it touched.

Near the river of blood, something heavy groaned against the ground, carving deep, jagged scars into the blood-soaked dirt. A colossal sword—its blade chipped and blackened, its edge dulled by the agony of countless battles—was being pulled forward by a man in shattered, bloodstained armor.

Each step he took was an act of defiance. His body screamed in protest, torn and trembling, blood seeping from the shattered seams of his armor. His face, hidden beneath layers of dirt and dried gore, was barely recognizable—more corpse than man. Only the ragged rise and fall of his chest betrayed the flicker of life within.

Above him, the sky had long since forgotten the sun. It loomed gray and heavy, the clouds swollen with something more than rain—something ancient, watching.

And yet, even in this graveyard of men and monsters, nothing was as dreadful as what loomed ahead.

A box of red wood towered above the battlefield, rising like an obscene monument. It stood upright like a coffin—but no coffin meant for man. It was monstrous in scale, stretching tens of meters into the sky. Its surface, old and splintered, was covered in a layer of dust that time itself had failed to erase.

But it was the chains that made it even more unbearable to look at.

Dozens of them, thick as tree trunks and rusted with age, wrapped around the massive coffin in a suffocating embrace. They twisted over and under each other like serpents frozen mid-thrash, anchoring the structure deep into the earth—as though terrified of what might lie within. The chains didn't move, didn't breathe… but they pulsed. A stillness too perfect to be natural. A silence that felt like a scream.

And the man—no, the ghost that still clung to flesh—stopped walking.

He stared at it, breath shallow and disjointed. His blurred vision fought to make sense of what stood before him. The sword, too heavy to hold, slipped from his grip and sank into the red mud with a heavy thud.

His knees buckled. He collapsed.

The world tilted.

The sky darkened further.

His voice was barely a breath, a dry rasp carried only to the dead.

"…What the hell even are you?"

Darkness began to pull at him, its fingers curling through his mind like smoke through shattered glass. The cold reached his bones. His heartbeat slowed.

And then, like a blade tearing through his fading mind, a voice exploded in his skull.

A woman's voice—furious, betrayed, and impossibly familiar.

"Anazor… how could you? How could you betray us?"

The words struck like thunder. His eyes shot open for a heartbeat too long, and memories came—flooding, drowning, screaming.

"I will kill you."

"I love you."

"I'm sorry… it had to be this way."

"Thank you, Lord."

"Damn you, Lord."

"You're evil and emotionless, just like your damned mother."

So this is what they mean, he thought dimly, when they say your life flashes before your eyes…

But as he began to drift, dragged into unconsciousness by his wounds, a thought lingered—sharp, persistent, desperate.

When did it all start?

When was I cursed with this fate?

He clawed through the mire of memories, trying to find it—the spark, the moment where everything unraveled. The betrayal. The blood. The coffin.

And then he saw it.

Clearer than anything else.

The moment that made him stop searching.

If I ever had to choose… this must be the closest thing to the beginning of my story.

***

It was twenty years ago. And I still remember that day.

I still remember the first words I heard that morning.

"This place feels so much better with that old witch gone."

The words cut through the silence like a blade—sharp, intentional.

I didn't flinch.

I just sat there, elbows on my knees, chin resting on clasped hands, staring out from the wide stone windowsill of my room. Below me, the tribe stretched out endlessly. Wooden houses, towers, and halls clung to the cliffs like veins on an open palm. Carved into hillsides, stacked atop terraces, spilling into every corner of the valley.

We weren't some forgotten tribe scraping by.

We were Varak-Kai. One of the three great tribes of the Maridain lands. A city-sized stronghold nestled beneath the shadow of the To'Kal Mountains. Our banners whipped in the wind. War horns cried at every sunrise. Warriors trained until their knuckles bled.

It was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful. Dangerous in the way silence is.

It should've made me feel proud.

All I felt was tired.

Another laugh echoed just outside my door.

"Haha, I can't agree more."

They weren't whispering. They wanted me to hear.

"But that boy… Anazor."

I kept my eyes on the valley. Smoke rose from cookfires. Warriors sparred in the dirt. Children shouted in the training circles. Another black banner went up.

The world moved on like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

"I just hope he stays away from us," one of them said, dripping fake sympathy. "Of course he'll be like her. That kind of evil runs in the blood."

"Don't worry," the other replied with a snort. "I heard even his father doesn't want him. No way he'll ever take her place as lord of the castle."

Still, I didn't move.

Months had passed since the funeral. Since they dragged her body through the tribe square and burned it in front of the altar like a sacrifice.

The infamous villainess. The madwoman. The one who made war on enemies and allies alike. Who spilled blood and broke bones and shattered laws.

All to make her son the next chief of the tribe.

I remember the crowd's faces. That look in their eyes—like they could breathe again. Like a storm had passed.

Even he didn't mourn her. The Chief. My father.

No words. No grief. Just a silent nod and a stone face.

And me?

I stumbled forward like a fool, sobbing, screaming, begging for someone—anyone—to care.

But even my father just stared at me like I was a stranger.

The window blurred in front of me. I blinked, swallowed.

Then a voice—clear, sharp.

Not mine.

"What did you just say?"

The laughter outside died instantly.

"L-Lady Nisrin, we—"

"How dare you speak that way about the lords of this castle?" Her voice was cold. No trace of the warmth I knew. "Should I report this?"

Footsteps. Scrambling. Silence.

That silence felt better than the words.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Then—knock knock knock.

Firm. Sharp. No patience behind it.

I didn't answer right away.

"…Enter."

The door opened.

Nisrin stepped in.

She looked like a shadow given shape—tall for a woman, wrapped in black leather, with long black hair and a round face. Her golden brown eyes scanned the room. Then landed on me.

And just like that… there it was.

That flicker of warmth. The only warmth I'd known since my mother died.

After the funeral, the Chief—ever so generous—put her in charge of me. "Until he's of age," he said. Like I was some wild thing that needed managing. Not his son.

But Nisrin never treated me like a task.

She treated me like a person.

I didn't speak at first. Just looked at her. Then at the band on her arm. Deep red with three golden stripes—mark of a Fang. A second-phase warrior.

Strong enough to take on thirty men.

Strong enough to stand alone on the front lines.

In Varak-Kai, few earned that title before the age of thirty.

Nisrin had earned it at twenty-five.

Her golden eyes studied me like they always did—gentle, unreadable.

"Today is the Rite of Embers," she said.

Just like that. No build-up, no warning. Just a sentence that made my chest tighten.

"Get ready."

I turned to the mirror. And I stared.

Brown hair. Dark eyes. A forgettable face. Too boring for a villain's son. Too plain for a leader. Maybe too plain for anything at all.

I pulled on the ceremonial tunic. Every fold felt heavier than the last. Like wearing expectations I didn't ask for.

Behind me, Nisrin waited silently. She was good at that.

___

The house of the Chief wasn't just big. It was loudly big—towering walls carved from obsidian stone, lined with banners dyed in the deep reds and burned golds of our tribe. The floors were covered in rugs stitched with the tribe's crest—a serpent coiled around flame. And the air? It always smelled faintly of smoke and incense, like the place had been burning for centuries but never quite turned to ash.

I walked through those halls with my head up and my heart... well, somewhere much lower.

Tribal masks lined the walls—ancient faces of old warriors, snarling or grinning or screaming, all cast in dark wood and bone. There were weapons too: spears, curved blades, shields with cracks that told stories no one wanted to retell.

As I reached the stairs, I heard them.

Leather boots against stone. Confident. Slow. The rhythm of men who believed the world was theirs to command.

From the opposite staircase, they descended.

My father—Varum, Chieftain of the tribe. Still built like a wall, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak dyed in tribal reds, a bone necklace resting against his chest. His face was all sharp edges—high cheekbones, a square jaw dusted with greying stubble, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. Deep scars crossed his cheek and brow like forgotten war stories. His body hadn't aged the way others did; he still looked like he could snap a man's spine with one arm. And his eyes—those were carved from iron, unflinching and cold.

And beside him, Lucas. The golden son. Braids perfect, clothes spotless and marked with patterns reserved for warriors—he even wore a ceremonial sash I hadn't seen before. Probably something he earned just for breathing with purpose. His face was annoyingly symmetrical: smooth skin, sharp jaw, golden hair that caught every stray beam of sunlight like it was doing it a favor.

He had that effortless kind of handsome that made people forgive anything unlike me.

I forced a smile, because that's what I'd trained myself to do.

"Good morning, Lucas."

His eyes flicked toward me. Just for a second.

"Hmph."

That was it. Not even a proper grunt.

But it was enough. The hatred was there, clear as day now that no one was around to force him to pretend. When my mother was alive, he wore a mask—one of charm and civility. But masks crack. Especially when the one holding them up is gone.

I didn't blame him. Not really.

The truth had unfolded in pieces after her death. Whispers became stories. Stories became accusations. They said my mother had tortured Lucas—punished him for every bit of talent he dared to show. All because she feared he'd take my place.

Funny thing was… I never had a place.

I'd never trained. Never fought. I didn't even know Lucas had been adopted until after the funeral, when suddenly everyone thought it was safe to talk.

I turned to my father, hoping this time might be different.

"Good morning, Father."

His eyes didn't even twitch.

"If you're ready, let's go."

No warmth. No recognition. Just an instruction. I wasn't a son—I was a piece of cargo he had to deliver.

We walked in silence through the final corridor and stepped outside, where the cold morning wind slapped my face like even the air had an opinion.

A large black carriage waited at the gates, pulled by two beasts with horns like tree branches and hooves that cracked the stone. It looked more like a war chariot than a transport.

Nisrin was already there, waiting like a shadow that refused to leave. Her face unreadable as ever.

I climbed in beside her, with Lucas and Varum taking the opposite seats. The door shut, and the carriage began to move.

Silence.

As usual, I tried to break it.

"Did anyone see the sunrise today? Looked like the sky was bleeding."

Lucas looked out the window. Varum didn't even blink. Nisrin said nothing.

Right. Should've expected that.

So I sat there. Pretending the silence didn't bite.

We rode for what felt like forever, the world shifting from crowded stone to open wilds. The trees grew darker, the path narrower, and the air heavier.

Eventually, the carriage stopped.

We had arrived.

The Vahl Cave.

Set into the bones of To'Kal Mountain like a wound in the earth, its mouth wide and waiting. Hundreds of children stood in lines, all dressed in ceremonial garb, each flanked by an escort. Some wore nervousness like a cloak. Others, pride.

And here I was, stepping out of the carriage with three of the most powerful people in the tribe and feeling like the most irrelevant one in the dirt.

I straightened my back, feeling their eyes. I didn't know if they looked at me because I was the chief's son… or because they were wondering what the hell I was doing there.

Honestly?

Same.