The night after their encounter with the Inquisitors, the tavern room felt warmer than it should have. Not because of the weather, but because Irin couldn't stop thinking about the woman's gaze lingering on his wrist. She had seen it — he was sure of it. And yet, she'd said nothing.
For now.
Lera sat on the floor near the window, legs crossed, chewing on the last of the candied fig. Kael, fourteen, lounged on the bed with his boots still on, flipping a dull coin through his fingers.
"I'm bored," Kael muttered.
"You're always bored," Lera replied without looking.
"Then fix it."
She turned, eyebrow raised. "Truth or dare?"
Kael sat up immediately. "Yes."
Irin blinked. "Are you serious?"
Lera grinned. "Why not? We're in hiding, might as well feel alive."
Kael grinned. "Alright, Irin. Here's the question: what's the worst thing you've ever done with your powers?"
Irin sighed. "Truth."
Kael leaned forward. "So? Answer it."
The room went quiet. Even the tavern noise downstairs seemed to dim.
Irin stared at the wall.
"I burned someone," he said at last. "Accidentally. He tried to hurt Lera."
Lera's expression softened. Kael looked away.
"Your turn," Irin said. "Lera."
She raised a brow. "Truth."
He thought for a moment. "Do you trust me?"
Lera didn't answer right away. Her fingers tightened around her knee.
"Yes," she said. "But sometimes I'm scared of you."
He nodded. "That's fair."
Kael groaned. "You two are so dramatic. Someone dare me already."
Lera smirked. "Alright, Kael. Here's the question: would you rather go outside and shout your name to the street or do ten push-ups right here in front of us?"
Kael blinked. "Push-ups. Obviously."
He groaned but dropped to the floor and began counting. "One... two... you're all ridiculous... three..."
The game went on like that for nearly an hour. They laughed more than they had in weeks. Lera dared Irin to recite a song from his village. Kael asked Lera if she'd ever kissed someone. Irin challenged Kael to balance on one foot while telling a scary story. Their voices filled the room with a warmth that didn't come from the fire.
For a moment, they weren't fugitives. They were just young and alive.
Elsewhere: Shadows move.
Across the city, in a stone hall lined with banners and cold fire, the two Inquisitors stood before a scrying mirror. The image shimmered with static energy.
"The mark was real," the woman said. "Left wrist. He covered it, but I saw the glow."
The voice that answered was cold and metallic. "Identity confirmed?"
"Sketch matches. Age matches. Power resonance aligns."
"Good. Begin immediate classification. Tier Red. Public threat."
A moment passed.
"Authorization to issue warrant?" the man asked.
"Granted."
Less than an hour later, a poster fluttered from a wall near the central square. Ink still fresh, the parchment bore a charcoal sketch of Irin's face. Above it: WANTED. Below: Ashborn. Highly dangerous. Approach with caution. Reward: 500 gold coins.
It didn't take long for whispers to spread.
Back in the tavern
Kael returned to the room, scowling. "He said if I asked again, I'd be cleaning stables for a week."
Lera burst into laughter. Even Irin smiled.
But the warmth didn't last.
A thud echoed up the stairs. A door opened. Then closed. A creak of footsteps on the floorboards outside.
They froze.
No one knocked. No one entered.
But something had changed.
"Someone saw the poster," Irin murmured.
Kael moved toward the window and peeked through the curtains. "Nothing yet."
"Not yet," Irin said.
They all felt it — the shift. The silence with weight behind it. The last moment before a spark hit dry tinder.
Lera moved back toward the window, her breath shallow. "Should we leave?"
"No," Irin said. "We don't know who saw it. If we run now, it'll confirm everything."
They stayed awake a little longer, whispering about what to do next. But the laughter was gone.
Somewhere else: The man in the bar
Sorat Noll sat in the farthest corner of a low-ceilinged tavern filled with pipe smoke and riverfolk. He wore no symbols. No armor. Just a worn traveler's cloak and a quiet expression.
He sat with a chipped mug of water, eyes drifting lazily over the crowd. But he missed nothing.
Then he saw it.
A man stumbled in, laughing, waving a poster.
"Half a kingdom if you find the fire brat!" he roared.
Sorat's eyes narrowed.
He reached for the parchment, casually, as if out of curiosity. The barkeep handed him a copy without question.
WANTED — Ashborn. Highly dangerous. 500 gold coins.
He studied the face.
Then leaned back, breathing out slow.
A figure in the shadows approached and leaned toward him. "You know him? He's in the city. Word is, he came in on foot — just walked through the gates like no one would notice."
Sorat's fingers tensed slightly around the parchment.
"Then he's here," Sorat said quietly.
Someone at the next table shifted. A silent nod. The kind only old soldiers understood.
Without another word, Sorat stood. He left coins on the table, enough to pay for drinks he didn't touch, and slipped through the door without a sound.
The hunt had begun.
That night, in the tavern room, Lera and Kael eventually fell asleep — Lera curled up near the window, Kael sprawled across the bed, snoring softly.
Irin didn't sleep. He sat in the corner, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams, listening to every creak of wood and distant murmur beyond the door. His thoughts spun like fire through dry branches.
The game had ended. The city would not forget them now.
Ash had left its mark.