The fog in Tilverton never lifted. It hung low and heavy over the stilted town, seeping into the wood, the lungs, the bones. The air reeked of brine, mildew, and blood left too long to dry. Lanterns burned dim and sickly above the piers, their glow swallowed whole by the mist.
Khazamyr sat hunched beneath a rotting beam, his back to the cold wood. His cloak was shredded, stiff with salt and filth, clinging to him like a dead skin. The lone black top-knot of a Ka’Mellan corsair drooped against his neck, matted with grime. His breath came slow and shallow; each rib protested like splintered timber.
He could still see the bridge.
The sandstone had shimmered in the desert heat, the air rippling above it. Ka’Mella had gathered in droves—merchants, cutthroats, priests of hollow gods—all craning for a glimpse of the Pyromancer’s fall.
Magnus had come for him across that bridge. No heraldry, no flourish—just the gleam of polished bronze and the sweep of a crimson cloak, relic of the Iron Legion. His helm hid his face, his silence heavier than any accusation.
Khazamyr had shouted till his throat tore.
“You brought this rot upon me! You… delivered Azamul’s curse!”
The words had carried across the stones, across the city, swallowed by the heat and the waiting hush.
Magnus’s response had been simple—a single breath, then a strike. The bronze gauntlet caught Khazamyr’s jaw with the sound of snapping wood. The world went white. Then came the lift, the swing of motion, the indignity. Magnus had slung him over one shoulder like a butcher’s prize, the crimson cloak brushing his face with each heavy step.
The crowd had roared approval, laughter echoing through Ka’Mella’s sandstone alleys.
But not everyone had laughed. Among the faces, Khazamyr had glimpsed her—an Afari tribeswoman wrapped in desert cloth, eyes dark and still as cooled glass. She hadn’t shouted. She hadn’t looked away. Just watched. As if measuring the shape of his ruin.
That memory lingered even now, haunting him more than Magnus’s gauntlet.
Khazamyr pressed his palm against the hollow where the crystals once burned beneath his flesh. The skin there thrummed faintly, alive with a ghost pulse.
He took what was yours. Let the fire take what’s his.
A spark flickered to life in his hand—weak, trembling, but real. His mouth curled into a thin, bitter smile.
Behind him, the fog shifted. A soft footstep. Then another...