The air was colder up here.
Cinder stepped lightly through the rusted ribs of the old train station, where the bones of the past had long since been forgotten by the world above. Brick dust and moss clung to the iron supports as he climbed, pulling himself through a broken window and up the makeshift rafter-ladder to reach the upper platform. The wind knifed through the gaps in the concrete, stirring dust and ash in lazy circles as he moved.
This place had become his haven. A relic half-swallowed by time, broken and left behind—just like him.
He dropped his bag near the fire ring in the corner and knelt beside it, glancing around the dim room. The roof was half-collapsed, leaving beams exposed to the sky. Vines curled down from shattered walls. But it was quiet, and it was his.
He sat cross-legged near the blackened fire pit and opened his system window with a flicker of thought. It appeared instantly, smooth and silver-edged, hanging before his eyes.
***
[SYSTEM STATUS – SUBJECT: CINDER]
Title: [Unknown]
Lineage: Ashen Knight
Rank: Fledgling Inheritor (Unawakened)
Inheritance Path: The Hollow Flame
Origin Mark: Heart of the Hollow Flame
Fate Status: Judgement Survived
Attributes: [Body of Ash], [Emberborne]
[PASSIVE ABILITY – Sootsight]
"The dead embers still see."
Perceive residual heat signatures, motion trails, and disturbances in the air.
[ACTIVE ABILITY – Coalforged Reflex]
"His will is forged where the fire lingers."
Temporarily boosts reflexes and pain resistance.
Damage taken beforehand strengthens the effect.
[Items]: NULL
[Crucible Entry]: Incomplete
[Soul Core]: Locked
[Awakened Title]: Pending
No vow. No memory fragments. No grand patron's whisper echoing in his head.
Good. He didn't want voices. He had enough noise of his own.
He dug through the satchel beside him—the result of careful, methodical spending. The academy had gifted each student one hundred credits, and he'd wasted none of them.
No flashy weapons or one-time enchantments. Just what mattered: survival.
His fingers passed over a pack of high-calorie rations, a collapsible shelter kit, a water filter, a steel-edged field knife, coil wire, firestarter tablets, medical wrap, a flint striker, and a basic hook and grapple line. Everything fit into a snug weatherproof field pack. Enough to live for a week—if he rationed right and didn't screw up.
His eyes drifted toward the fire pit again. He leaned forward, brushing the ash with his fingers, cold and brittle as dead paper.
"So my abilities are based around smoke and ash?" he muttered.
He sifted carefully until he found it: a solid lump of charcoal, dense and gray, still holding the shape of half-burned wood.
He picked it up, turned it slowly in his fingers—and felt something respond.
Not heat. Not magic.
Presence. He could feel the Nythe exiting his body and entering the coal.
It pulled at his chest like a thread tugging on the symbol branded into his skin. A quiet resonance.
He stood slowly, palm still cupped around the charcoal.
Smoke rose.
Not normal smoke. This wasn't lazy campfire exhaust. It moved with a strange focus, thick and almost silken, curling around his arm as though following command.
He extended his fingers, and the smoke responded—coiling out from the edges of his palm and drifting along his forearm like it recognized him. His heartbeat slowed as he watched it dance.
Cinder took a step and activated Coalforged Reflex.
A sudden shift took hold.
Clarity. Sharpness. His thoughts didn't race—they tightened. Every grain in the floorboards. The faint flicker of air patterns near the broken window. The slight, almost imperceptible tick of distant wind pressure shifting the dust.
He moved—vaulting across the broken floor to the far platform in one fluid motion. No stumble. No hesitation. His body responded exactly as he wanted it to.
As quickly as it came, the rush faded. A warmth rose in his chest and limbs—not painful, but real. A gentle tax for the speed.
Cinder knelt, catching his breath. That had been a short activation. Useful. Efficient. Not flashy. But it could mean the difference between surviving a fall or dying on a misstep. Between dodging a blow or bleeding in the dirt.
He turned again toward the pit. This time, he touched two fingers to the ash and called forth Sootsight.
His vision darkened slightly—but not in blindness.
Details emerged. Not in color or brightness—but pressure. Residual heat. The world came alive in its scars.
The footprints from his earlier movement still glowed faintly on the floor—gradually fading. Heat lines from his own body shimmered around him. Where the breeze entered the ruined station, soft ridges of air distortion revealed the path it carved through the room.
There—on the far wall—he saw something small; a rat's trail, fading in delicate crimson, curling through a broken hole in the wall.
He followed the path slowly, training himself to recognize the way it arced, how it cooled. It wasn't just his vision. It was a new sense.
In a few seconds, it faded and the ability dropped. His pulse was steady.
"This… I can work with this," he whispered.
He stood, dusting his hands off on his pants, then went to his pack again. Pulled out a few sticks of sealed charcoal. He pocketed three of them and tucked the rest away for later.
Looking at the soot on his fingertips, he felt something else now. A rhythm under his skin. Not a roar. Not a scream. But a coalbed warmth.
A quiet flame.
He stepped back to the ledge and pulled himself onto the roof again. The wind hit harder here, colder. But his body didn't flinch.
The air shimmered slightly around him as the warmth inside pushed out.
He didn't scream this time. Didn't panic. The burn inside was steady now. Controlled.
He looked out over the cracked skyline of the city—the iron bones of towers and the veins of streets barely lit beneath a flickering grid of forgotten light.
This place wasn't home. It wasn't sanctuary.
But it was familiar.
He reached up, brushing the edge of his scarf, then glanced at his hands.
The pale ash tone of his skin had darkened slightly. Just faintly. As though something beneath the surface was smoldering—not hot, not dangerous. Just… waiting.
Waiting to be used.
He sat with his back to the ledge and let the wind pass over him.
He still had time before the crucible. A few more days to prepare, test, train.
Cinder opened his status page again and focused on the attributes:
***
[Attribute: Body of Ash]
Your body is no longer entirely flesh. Minor wounds cauterize instantly. You can raise or lower your internal temperature at will, enhancing strength, endurance, or stealth depending on the need. Heat becomes both weapon and shield.
[Attribute: Emberborne]
You are marked by a deeper fire. Ash, smoke, and burning matter respond to your presence. Flame-aligned creatures recognize you as kin—or threat. You are the first breath of something ancient and rising.
He would have to figure out what these meant on his own after he entered the crucible.
But when the gate opened, and the wild world beyond reached for his throat—
He'd be ready to burn back.