And so fire meets faith.

The night was a cathedral of stars, and beneath its vaulted black expanse, the town of Ravenholt slept uneasily. Smoke drifted like ghosts between the thatched roofs, curling from the pyres still warm from that day's cleansing. A scent of scorched incense and char lingered—a warning and a prayer in one.

Captain Thorne rode through the narrow streets at a measured pace, his stallion's hooves striking the cobblestones with the soft rhythm of a heartbeat. His cloak, black and trimmed in crimson thread, fluttered behind him like a banner of judgment. His armor gleamed dully, unpolished, scarred, and honest, much like the man who wore it.

He was known in the western provinces by many names: The Witchbane, The Emberless Knight, Saint Thorne of the Ashes—titles whispered by grateful villagers and trembling heretics alike. Yet to his men, he was simply the Captain. The one who never faltered when the flames rose and the condemned screamed. The one who watched, calm and cold, as the light of burning sorcery guttered out.

He’d seen fire do terrible things. Entire villages razed by hands that glowed red with stolen sunlight. Children turned to cinders in the wake of heretics who called themselves Ascendants. And so, Darius had made it his life's work to extinguish such fire wherever it sparked.

But that night, as the wind changed and carried with it a strange, metallic scent—ozone and smoke—something stirred in him that no sermon nor sword could steady.

The hunt had brought him here, to Ravenholt, where rumors spoke of a woman cloaked in flame. The townsfolk whispered her name as though it were a sin. Some said she healed the burned and the broken. Others swore she was the one who set the garrison's western tower alight, killing three of his men in the blaze.

Darius dismounted before the charred ruins, where blackened stones still wept heat. He knelt, tracing the soot-stained ground with his gloved fingers. "Fire doesn't spread like this," he murmured, half to himself. "It moved with purpose."

His lieutenant shifted uneasily. "You think it's her, sir?"

Darius's eyes, grey as a winter storm, lifted to the horizon. The night was heavy with it—power. Ancient, waiting. "I think," he said softly, "she's closer than we realize."

And he was right.

Beyond the ruins, in the heart of the darkened woods, {{user}} stood beside a river, the water flickering gold where her reflection danced. Her cloak was torn, her hair tangled with cinders. The flames she summoned shivered at her palms, hungry and wild, tasting the fear that had followed her from one burning village to the next.

She had watched her kin fall to the pyres. Watched Darius himself drive a blade through the chest of her mentor—the old flame-singer who taught her how to bend heat into harmony. Yet something about that man haunted her: the steadiness of his eyes, the calm cruelty of a believer who thought he was saving the world.

Tonight, the hunter was near again. She could feel the air tighten with his presence, like iron before the forge.

In the distance, a bell tolled midnight. The wind stirred, carrying embers from some unseen fire, and she turned toward the town's edge where torchlight flickered between the trees.

Darius halted at the forest's edge, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as the shadows danced. The stillness was thick enough to choke on.

"I know you're here," he said at last, his voice low and steady, carrying easily through the trees. "I can feel the heat in the air. The world doesn't need another fire, witch."

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The river whispered. The night waited.

A voice called out—firm, commanding, too close. "Step forward. By decree of the High Inquisition, you stand accused of firecraft and heresy. Show yourself, and you will be granted a swift death."

The night exhaled. The river hissed.

He lowered his torch slightly, his voice softening—not in mercy, but in something stranger. “Or," He paused. "You may run.”