I don't know how long I remain there. Sitting with my knees hugged to my chest, I watch the black in their eyes gain a glassy shine, and listen to the wind stir in the branches, and sense the faint sting as their souls ebb away. The flames are gone from sight, but their whisper remains. I'm cursed to feel the effect of every drop of their power.

No, my power, and the consequences of what I have done.

Only when the last spark of life has faded from Tyler do I tear my eyes away from their bodies, staring downwards. My hand runs across the grass, letting the blades tickle my palm. Beside me, their colour is not the shaded green of the rest of the woodland, or even the usual brighter hue of the grassy plains. They are dull, lifeless brown, bordering on an ashen grey, and their mark forms a near-perfect circle around me. Their tips droop towards the soil.

At the touch of my hand beneath the flimsy layer of a glove, the grass shrivels further, strands coiling into themselves as if cowering under the shadows of my fingers as they play across the earth. The grey tinge deepens.

I sigh, the sound tight. Great. I can even murder simple grass.

As if to mock me, the dulled circle ends right where a different kind of death begins. Camdyn, Edita and Tyler, three friends and soldiers who had only minutes ago been full of such fierce determination, now lying dead beside one another where they had once stood as one. Blackened cracks cover every scrap of skin that escapes their armour, and even the rest is tinged as grey as the grass, stained with death. With me.

There is still fear writhing through me, not yet subdued, but I no longer have any place to direct it. I clench my fist, attempting to smother the flames still licking my palm. Rough leather scrapes my skin. Without thinking, I tear the glove away, then the other with a sweeping strike, as if their removal will somehow wake me from this nightmare. It doesn't.

Bowing my head, I wrap my arms tight around my ankles, clawing at the buckles of my boots. I wish the cool metal wasn't so smooth. If it came to a sharp point, I could let it slice deep into my skin, deeper than flame. It might numb the pain inside.

Pain. A slice. My hand flies to my chest in a burst of realisation. There is a ragged tear in my shirt, soaked in my own blood. My stomach clenches; it slithers between my fingers, warm and sticky. But when I battle through that to trace the skin beneath, it is smooth and unmarked. The wound is gone. I search for the edge of a gash, even the ridge of a scar, but there is nothing left.

My fire doesn't just kill. It heals too, made to deflect harm and preserve only me. Somewhere deep down, a memory sparks to life, matching with the lingering sensation of blood with no source clinging to my skin.

Shaking my head hard, I jolt to my feet, dragging red smears across my shirt as I try to peel the blood away. I can't unlock that train of thought. I've worked too hard to bury it.

My head spins from the sudden movement, the world swaying. I stumble back, throwing out a hand to clutch at the thick tree's trunk. For a few moments, I stay there, catching my breath and waiting for focus to return to my vision, shoving any flicker of the past into the dark where I can't reach it.

The fire comes to my rescue again, bursting up around my wrist. I shoot it a glare, too tired and in need of its calm to bother fighting it. The pounding in my head fades the longer it blazes.

I trace the bark, fingers scraping on the worn grooves. Tyler's arrow impales the tree at my chest's height. Another weapon meant for me. Its feathers are surprisingly soft given their ragged nature, but certainly sharp and streamlined, well-designed for rapid movement.

Their touch brings two realisations. One sends me drifting away from the tree, placing my steps carefully while the fire keeps me steady, back to the circle of dead grass. The other weighs more gradually on my mind, filtering through a lingering sense of dread.

This won't be the last time this will happen. There are many reasons for me staying in that cell, and this must be one of them. My power will make me only enemies.

Then again, aren't I better prepared now, more wary of the intentions of others? I instantly shake away the futile thought. I can't truly be ready for this; it isn't like I know how to fight, or how to survive other than using my flame. Besides, I can't simply not trust anyone from this moment forth. I'm going to need the help of others, at least until I work out what to do out here.

I bend down at the spot where I discarded my gloves, slipping my hand inside one. It is empty. As I reach for the other, I cast a glance at the fire burning low in a tight black coil around my arm. When this does happen again, I can't let flame be my only means of defence. If I want to avoid a repeat of today, I'm going to need a different weapon, one far less capable of destruction.

The second glove contains what I am looking for. A brief smile flickers across my lips as I draw out the blue feather, thankfully still reasonably neat. The joy soon vanishes, swallowed by the dry hollow in my chest, but it is something. A small reminder that not everyone out here wants to kill me.

But I still need a weapon. Swallowing hard, I turn, clutching the feather harder when I meet Edita's lifeless eyes. Unfortunately, I only have one source of resources, as much as it sickens me to use them.

I scurry over, knowing that if I linger I'll never do it. My eyes first catch Edita's sword hilt, the edge jagged, then quickly dismiss it. It is sharp, but nothing like a real, fully intact sword. Then there is Tyler's bow. I pick it up from its spot beside him and give its string a yank backwards, then snatch up one of the arrows spilling from his sack before I can change my mind.

Straightening the arrow on the string is more difficult than Tyler made it look. I pin it in an unstable hold between my fingers, then try to mirror his stance, planting a back foot in the browned circle and squinting down the length of the arrow. As long as I hit the tree directly in front, I'll consider it a success.

Barely a tug backwards, and my arm is already starting to tremble. Tyler must have been stronger than he appeared. I pull the string as taut as physically possible, muscles straining, then release with a sigh of relief.

I'd pictured the arrow soaring straight through the air. Instead, it almost flops from the string, curving downwards to land uselessly in the grass.

"Well, that failed." It strikes me the moment the words fall from my lips. This is the first time I've been alone since I left my cell. No wonder I feel a little less on edge.

I cross the few steps to retrieve the arrow, then glance back at Tyler. It's all it takes for the familiar comfort to fade. Swallowing, I lay the bow beside him, positioning the arrow on the string so that it looks ready to fire.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him, then raise my head to convey the same message to the rest of them. If only they could hear it. Instead, they died at a monster's hand who was more than willing to see them fall.

"A weapon," I add in a mutter, turning away. "Stop dwelling on it. A weapon." Speaking to myself in my cell, snake or not, always helped to direct my thoughts, and I hope the same is true today.

Seeing as Edita has no usable sword and I'm clearly not cut out to be an archer, I'm left with Camdyn. His first dagger is nothing but metal scraps and shavings, but I pick up the second one from where he dropped it, beside his outspread hand. There are faint, grey-black smudges on the white hilt where his fingers gripped it, most likely of the fire's effect. I twist it in my hand. It feels almost too light to do any damage, but it is far more likely to meet its target than an arrow.

I'm about to move away, but then I spot Camdyn's leather belt. The knot in my stomach tightens in protest, but I detach it anyway and hurry from him to chase away any doubts. I set down the dagger and Finlay's feather and wrap it around my waist. I won't be able to defend myself if my hands are full half the time.

Thankfully, the buckle isn't much different to that of my boot, if with a few more places to attach it. I adjust it so it is reasonably tight, then slot the feather into its right side. It holds firm.

With a long exhale, I slump against a tree, staring through the mess of branches above at the pale sky. I turn the dagger over in my hands. The hilt is soft leather, miniature nicks that dip the material showing its wear. The blade is smooth, flat, its edge sharp. More than capable of cutting skin.

I flinch, nearly dropping the dagger. It's a wonder I don't manage to cut myself there and then. Not that the injury would serve any issue, not with my flame there to fix it.

Gritting my teeth, I grasp the hilt firmly, hoping the pressure on my palm will subdue any unwelcome thought threatening to rise to the surface. The air is beginning to feel tight. I glance down, searching for something to focus on, and make the mistake of catching my reflection in the dagger's shiny side.

Black eyes. They don't look completely real: the pupil too wide, stare too intense, colour far too dark. In contrast, the skin around is bleached and pale as ice. Even the whites of the eyes aren't light enough -- forked black lines weave in at their edges, as if they bleed cursed fire.

For that moment, the wind vanishes. The sun's heat fades, and the shade of the trees expands, until there is only shadow and stone.

Darkness clouds in between the bars. Beyond them, a slumped figure staring empty-eyed into nothing, limp hand missing the dagger formerly clutched there. Now, its blade is before me, and it is there I see those black eyes.

The surface is smudged, tainted dark and dusty, but that does not change the reality of its image. There is nothing but death reflected there. Fire absent of warmth, sparks without light, power lacking mercy. Everything that drove her away.

It is a curse I must carve from the world.

The dagger spins. My heartbeat shudders through me, the lonely pulse sinking heavy shadows into my bones. Just a little closer--

My head jolts back, slamming into something solid, into tree bark. A sudden sound buzzes through me, ringing in my ears as I shy away from the filtered light -- a bird's cry, cutting through me as if its talons rake through my chest. I've never been more grateful for such an abrupt interruption.

I glance up just in time to catch a flash of colour amongst the bare branches. A blue wingtip, far more vibrant than the sky, standing out starkly for a brief second before its flight carries it away.

"Th... Thank you," I whisper to it automatically, ignoring how much my voice shakes. Reluctantly, my gaze turns downwards to where I still clutch the dagger.

Glistening tip rotated and pointed a finger's breadth from my heart.

It takes more effort than it should to wrench the blade away, a light thunk tremoring the earth beside me. I gasp in a breath. Fire is already climbing up my arms, flaring as dark as my eyes. I don't care. If it knits together those wounds, shields me from the past that pours out in crippling waves, it can wreck whatever havoc it desires.

"Kid."

I snap sideways, the force sending my back slipping from the tree. As I struggle to right myself, I grab for the dagger, raking through the grass until I meet its hilt. The moment I do, I catch sight of the figure peering at me from the shade of a tree. Sword in hand and striking green eyes finding me like a pair of sunlit beams, Harlow has shaken away any air of yesterday's boredom. Now, he is focused, dangerous, the same soldier who struck down the woman outside my cell.

My fingers freeze on the dagger's hilt. I doubt the weapon will be of any aid.

Instead, I engage in a battle I have more chance at winning -- taming the flames still beating up my arms -- without moving my attention from him. Our eyes have met, and now I'm afraid to look away.

There are soldiers behind him, two I don't recognise, one with a bow aimed while the other has a sword in each hand, neither as long as Harlow's nor as short as the dagger half-clutched in my hand. I'm painfully aware of the way their eyes flick between me and the bodies between us, tense hostility thickening the air.

They're going to attack me just as Edita did. That much is clear. I tighten my hold on the dagger, praying uselessly that it might be enough.

Harlow tilts his head sideways. Escaped strands of dark hair brush his shoulders. Most of his face, save his eyes, are too shadowed by his helmet to read.

"Kid," he repeats. "Stand up."

I scramble to my feet, rooting them hard in the earth as another dizzy wave passes over me. The cost of the fire's removal. Resting my hand on the tree to stay upright, I make a hasty attempt at bowing my head, attempting some scrap of respect.

"Har--" I swallow, catching myself. "Captain Rakis."

The dagger fell from my grip as I rose. It rests beside my left foot. My mind whirs, grasping for some semblance of a plan and getting nowhere.

"Stay still," he says, taking a slow step forward. I search for any sign of aggression in his tone, even the notion of hurt or irritation or even fear, but there is nothing except force of command. I do as he says, nails digging into a loose slit in the tree's bark.

With every movement he makes towards me, the tangle of anxiety in my chest tightens, pressing at my lungs. I'm surprised he doesn't flinch at the thunder of my heartbeat. My eyes track his sword, held loosely in his hand and pointing downwards. All too easily, he could swing it up, slice my throat or my chest, and let the caged flame inside me pounce.

By the time he stops, he's a little more than an arm's length away. Easy enough to reach with a stream of fire. I curl my hand around my new belt.

He sighs. Then, somehow nonchalantly, he slides his sword into its sheath with a rough scrape of metal. Before I can decide how to react to that, he is reaching to his other side and unclipping another metal object, two solid rings strung together with a short chain.

"Kid, these are handcuffs," he says, words slow and pointed, holding them out in the space between us. "Hold your hands behind your back. I'm going to fasten them to your wrists."

"Why?" I want to bite my tongue off the moment the question emerges. The reason is obvious.

His eyes flash with what might be amusement. He gestures behind him, to where the other two soldiers are waiting. "It makes them feel better. Now do as I say."

The glint of Camdyn's dagger amongst the grass catches my eye. It's impossible to tell if Harlow has noticed it. With my hands tied, it will be of no use, and I will be defenceless against the touch of their weapons. I remain rigid.

A frown deepens the shadows of his face. "Come on, kid. This is a lot easier if you cooperate." When I continue to hesitate, he releases another sigh. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you."

For the first time, I read clear sincerity in his tone. Him I might be able to trust, but my gaze flicks over his shoulder, catching sight of an arrow still directed at me and twin swords held aloft.

"And neither will they," he adds firmly.

I'm still not sure I believe it, but if I disobey him the chances of harm are far higher. I swallow, then carefully retract my grip from the tree, placing both hands behind my back. At least I'm a little steadier on my feet now. With a nod of satisfaction, Harlow paces around me, the chain jangling in his grip. I try not to flinch as cool metal touches my bare wrist.

"Careful," I say without thinking, then curse myself. My short period alone must have loosened my tongue.

Harlow chuckles, the sound almost masking the click of the first ring trapping my left wrist. "I assure you, care is in my best interests." A second click. The weight of the handcuffs pulls at my hands awkwardly as he releases them, then steps back into view. "And yours," he mutters quietly, shooting a glance at the other two soldiers. They show no signs of putting away their weapons, even as Harlow gestures for them to be lowered.

His sword, however, remains sheathed. Looking away from me, he examines Camdyn -- closest to us -- then Tyler and Edita, his expression grim. "A shame. Such a close team of soldiers. Still, I suppose these things cannot be helped."

My hands fidget within the constraints of the handcuffs, wrists twisting, testing their strength. I don't quite know what to say. Does he not care for his fallen comrades? Everything about his demeanor is so unexpected, and it somehow sets me more ill at ease than if he had been growling and jabbing his sword at me. It doesn't sit right.

He bends down, plucking Camdyn's dagger from the ground, and the unease deepens. The blade shines as he twists it in his grip, then slides it into his belt just as I had been planning to.

His wrist flicks, beckoning. "Follow me. Fayre and Leofric will take up the rear."

It feels far too familiar: the lingering whisper of death, the fearful scowls off to the side, Harlow stood before me with my only option to let him lead me on. Yet one thing is different. Instead of leaving behind a cell and entering a wider world, I'm trapped again. Beyond the small stretch of trees, the plains stretch unbroken, but I have only one narrow path to follow. This time, it is freedom I leave behind.

As Harlow pulls away, I stumble after him, the chain pulled taut as I strain against the handcuffs to regain balance. He pauses, glances back, then continues. Checking I'm okay? Ensuring I'm not making an ill-advised getaway? I can only grasp at truths now.

Fayre and Leofric close in from the side. I catch a decent glimpse of them as they pass, trying to memorise their features. Fayre is the one with the bow, tall and lean with a short plait of blonde hair. Leofric has dark skin and a battered helmet to match the scratches covering his stunted blades.

Harlow breaks the tree cover, doused in pale sunshine. I brace myself for the light. I'm all too conscious of the two soldiers prowling behind me, their serrated stares scraping over my palms where a flicker of dark flame cowers.

I can't promise I won't hurt them. It is too brittle a gesture. I can only pray to the open sky that they won't be next to fall.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun fact: Once again, this chapter wasn't supposed to end yet. It and the next chapter were outlined as one. I even thought it might be short, and there wouldn't be much going on xD AToD's wordcount keeps surprising me, for some reason. Maybe it's a first person thing that fools me into thinking something will be shorter than it ends up being, or maybe my boy just likes to think a lot.

It is fair enough, though, because he does have a lot to think about ;-; He does really make my heart ache. AToD is really living up to its title in being dark. I promise I do have nice things ahead for him--

On another note, Harlow's back! And we get more of him next chapter. He does make for some fun interactions, especially for me :))

- Pup