Alaric's heart burnt, the heat of it searing through his chest like molten metal poured into his veins. It was no ordinary pain. This was the fire of transformation, the blaze of something ancient that stirred within him, threatening to consume him whole. He stumbled through the wilderness, his breath ragged, as if the very air had turned to smoke, choking him. The forest around him twisted and writhed, the trees bending unnaturally, their limbs reaching toward him as though eager to take him into their dark embrace.
It had begun again.
The flame inside him pulsed—alive, relentless, untamable. He had faced the divide, crossed it, and survived. But the ravine was just the beginning. Now, Alaric had to face something far more dangerous: the fire that burnt within his very soul. It was the fire of his heart, the very essence of his being, and yet it terrified him beyond measure. There were moments when he felt as though he could hear the flame whispering to him, calling him into the depths of something he was unwilling to face.
He stopped for a moment, his feet sinking into the moss-covered ground, and placed his trembling hand over his chest. It was a desperate attempt to still the inferno that raged within him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his skin slick with sweat as the fire intensified. The flame was alive—like a beast, a creature in its own right, lashing and clawing, wanting freedom, wanting destruction.
Why now? Alaric thought. Why must I face this?
The flame wasn't just a symbol of strength or passion. It was pain. It was regret. It was every mistake, every failure, every dark moment that had defined him. The blame was the weight of everything he had ever done and the unbearable knowledge that it was now too late to change any of it.
But what terrified him more than the heat—the burning that was now part of his very soul—was the voice. The voice that had spoken to him since the ravine, whispering in his mind like a slithering serpent.
"You cannot run from yourself, Alaric. You are the flame."
His chest tightened as the voice echoed in his mind, a reminder that he could not escape. The darkness within him was not external; it was not some enemy he could slay. No. The darkness was him. The fire was his own creation.
As the night drew near, the forest seemed to close in around him. The air thickened with the oppressive heat of his inner fire, and the shadows deepened, becoming sharp and dangerous. Every crack of a twig underfoot sounded like the roar of an approaching beast. Every rustle of leaves, the scrape of bark, the whisper of wind in the trees—they were all part of a symphony of terror, a reminder that something was hunting him. But it wasn't just the forest that threatened him—it was the flame.
The flame that now beat like a second heart.
The sky darkened. It was a suffocating blackness that enveloped him, not a single star visible. The wind ceased to move, and all that was left was the sound of his own ragged breathing. And then, like a bolt of lightning in the night, it came to him—the flame was not merely a symbol of his emotions, his past, or his mistakes. It was alive in the truest sense of the word.
He understood. The flame was him. It was the very fire that had fuelled his journey, driving him forward in search of answers. But now, it threatened to burn him alive. It was no longer the fire of strength, of clarity. It was the fire of his deepest fears—his guilt, his pain, his failures—and it sought to consume him.
Alaric's legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees. The heat was unbearable now, gnawing at his skin, scorching his soul. He could hear the crackling, like burning wood, as the fire pulsed, its rhythm matching the frantic beat of his heart. He clawed at his chest, trying to suppress it, but the more he fought, the stronger it became.
"Let it burn," the voice urged, soothing yet horrifying in its calmness. "Let it consume you. For only when you surrender to it will you find your true self."
But Alaric didn't want to surrender. He couldn't. He had spent his whole life running from the fire. He had buried it deep inside, shoving it down with every lie, every distraction, every false mask he wore. The flame had always been there, flickering in the corners of his mind, reminding him of who he truly was. It was a part of him—his rage, his despair, his unrelenting pursuit of something better than the life he had built for himself. And yet, this flame was also the very thing that had torn him apart, that had fractured his soul into pieces, making him unrecognisable to himself.
How long can you hide from yourself? The voice taunted again, and this time, it wasn't distant. It was inside him, clawing at the walls of his mind.
Alaric gasped for air, his thoughts spiralling, his vision swimming in a haze of heat and confusion. The fire roared, burning brighter now, an inferno that threatened to devour everything. His body trembled as the intensity grew, his skin prickling, his muscles aching. He felt as though his very bones were being scorched from the inside out.
And then—he saw it.
A figure emerged from the shadows, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Alaric's eyes widened in terror, his heart hammering in his chest. The figure was familiar, but at the same time, it was not. It was a version of himself—yet distorted, twisted, as though shaped by the fire itself. His own face, but with eyes burning with a dark, consuming flame. A grin stretched across the figure's face, cruel and mocking.
"You think you can escape?" the figure asked, its voice low, guttural, almost inhuman. "You think you can outrun the fire inside you?"
Alaric's throat tightened. It's me. It's my shadow, he realised. This is the person I fear becoming.
The figure stepped closer, and Alaric could feel the heat radiating from it—thick, oppressive, like the air before a wildfire. His heart clenched in his chest, the flame inside him burning hotter with every breath he took. The figure's presence was suffocating, drowning him in his own self-loathing.
"You're nothing without me," the figure hissed. "You've always been nothing. Without the fire, you're weak. You're lost."
Alaric's body trembled violently. His mind screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something, but the fire inside him was unstoppable. It surged, overwhelming his thoughts, filling him with a cold dread.
"I won't let you win," Alaric managed to rasp, his voice hoarse with fear.
The figure laughed—a sound that echoed like a thousand screams in the dead of night. "You're already mine, Alaric. The flame will consume you, and you will become me."
The fire inside Alaric erupted in a violent surge. His body seized with pain as the flames ignited, curling around his skin like living serpents. It was unbearable. He could feel himself slipping away, losing himself to the very thing that had defined his existence.
But then—something within him cracked. The flame was not his enemy. It was his essence. His power. His truth.
"No," Alaric whispered, through the smoke and the heat, through the agony that tore at him. "I am not you."
With that single declaration, a wave of strength surged through him. The flame within him raged, but instead of fighting it, Alaric embraced it. He allowed it to wash over him, to consume him—not as a force of destruction, but as a part of himself. The fire became a light, a beacon in the darkness, burning away the fear, the doubt, and the shadows that had held him captive for so long.
In that moment, Alaric was not the man he had been. He was not the man the figure before him wanted him to be. He was something greater. He was the flame.
And as the fire receded, leaving him scorched but unbroken, Alaric understood. The flame was not a curse. It was his gift. It was his heart, his soul, his str
ength.
And it was his to control.