The whole damn place is on fire, thick black smoke engulfing clean air. People run, scream, and many have flames burning on their clothes. It's also hot, and from what I can gather, it's not a fire caused by a knocked over candle.

It's just a rumbling inferno, as if the homes were deliberately set ablaze.

I've lost Kathleen, too. I had been hot on her heels, but as soon as someone spotted me, they begged me to heal their wounds. Of course, I aided the first person, vigilant about any dangers that could appear while doing so.

"What happened?" I ask to a middle-aged woman named Millie. My heart pounds so hard, I wonder if it can fracture my rib cage.

"Ransacked!" the woman cries, wincing when I clasp her severely burned arm. "We need to get everyone out! Oh Jane, what if it's mercenaries?"

"Let's not stick around to find out."

Sending Millie on her way, I wipe my sweaty palms on my leather pants, raggedly breathing in the smoke. I even have to squint with how bright the fire is. Sometimes I check my skin, to make sure it isn't bubbling.

But I'm good. For now.

All the while, the fires just rumble.

Every time I try to peel away and seek out Kathleen, someone else needs me. I can't say no, either, no matter how my gut screams to take care of myself. Especially when I see unconscious children.

I have a limit, however, and before long I'm only good for placing damp towels on burned skin, my vision tunneling after each use of my magic.

A few hard sleepers straggle out of their homes, while others are going back to collect their belongings. The rest have fled.

I make my way to Main Street, since that's where Kathleen's grandmother has her apothecary. The village is moderately sized, with only four other dirt streets off of this main one. The houses in the heart of the village is primarily lived in by the miners, some of them using coal carts to ferry goods out of the burning center.

Stumbling through the flaming carnage, I place my hands over my eyes when a roof caves in from a nearby building. Embers spit out like the roof hit a body of splashing water, someone screaming nearby.

I stumble away, double glancing when I spot Kathleen by the apothecary, whose dress is tinged with embers as she helps her grandmother through the street.

One of her younger cousins wheels out what he can of the store as Kathleen assists the elderly woman.

Quickening my pace, my lungs screaming for better air—I pause, panting with my hair in my eyes. Someone on a horse strides around the postal building, riding on Main.

I'm at the end of Main and Kathleen is on the opposite side. I stand there, frozen with stinging eyes as the smoke and ash burn them dry. The horseman rides by one of our neighbors, slicing the man's head clean off, the body slowly slumping to the ground as the head rolls.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter, coughing from the smoke.

Kathleen is right in his way, shielding her grandmother.

On the off chance they're here for me... I scream as loud as I can, "HERE!"

The horseman looks in my direction, yanking his reins to charge right at me, striding past Kathleen, sparing her.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I'm exhausted, sick from the smoke, and overheated, and surely suffering from some kind of burns I haven't discovered yet. Despite that, I run for it, searching for a building to dash into. As I round the village's community structure, I stumble over a dead man who is marred deeply with burns, adrenaline pushing me forward.

To my horror, one of the blazing buildings shoots its fire high into the night, swirling above the village in completely unnatural ways—a fire mage's magic. Fire mages don't attack villages, unless at the hands of someone with a lot of money or power.

Fuck. Fucking balls. I'm so dead...

In our world, it ranks by cutthroats, mercenaries, warlords, then the Zeniths that triumph over them all.

This isn't the work of a cutthroat, that much is clear. Just how high up did this order come? I hope to never find out.

I survey the area for a black skull mask—just in case—as only the most elite warlords bear those masks, and they are notorious for using fire mages.

Unless this person is from overseas... from the Order of Ash.

I finally risk it and glance over my shoulder to see the man on the horse is gaining on me, his ugly face plain as day. Which means no mask to cover it. So not a Zenith? Or is the Zenith nearby, and this is a lackey?

Just who the fuck is attacking us? What direction should I run into?

I don't know how to outrun this man. The end of this road means running right into the woods, and I'm better at running through elaborate city streets than a forest. And if it's a Zenith, there will be more men in there, waiting.

So, I choose not to.

I stop and face him, ready to roll right towards the horse—out of the man's sword range—and bolt towards the other end of the village.

If I have to run, let it at least be towards somewhere I know.

It's a risky fucking move, but as long as I have some kind of a hand after this, I can heal whatever carnage I may suffer.

But behind the horse rider is a site that numbs me so juxtaposed to the incinerated village—a giant man rides on a black steed, wearing a black skull mask with unique, golden designs.

And the way he smoothly throws his dagger absolutely matches the skill of the Zenith that wears those masks, striking the other rider square in his back. The man slumps off his horse and hits the dirt with a hard thud; the beast runs past me.

If I hadn't been so shocked that it's a bona fide Zenith, I may have tried to grab the horse as it ran by me.

But I don't move.

It's been too long since I truly had to think on my feet like this. A Zenith should never be out here. Then again, neither should I... which means if he's here, he has to be after me.

Dead tired, I run for it again. I know I cannot stop this time. I can't consider my earlier stunt on this one, either. A part of me knows it's futile to even try and escape, but it feels important to make the effort.

The stomping of heavy horse hooves resonates in the dirt next to me. I glance over my shoulder to see he's right on me, towering over like a shadow of death, his vivid eyes visible through the holes of his black, expressionless mask. I cry out as the masked man grabs me while he's still on his damn horse, hoisting me up by the underside of my arm.

Panic drowns out any drive for retaliation, trying to cling onto his horse that only trots faster, my head on this man's thigh. His leather is clearly a deep red, something about the color unnerving me.

Only rich men have armor like this.

Holy shit. They really sent a Zenith after me.

Once I realize I'm not dead or injured, I'm about to fight back in any way that I can to make him drop me, only for him to release me on his own once we're outside of the main carnage.

"Rope her!" The Zenith shouts with a deep, raspy voice that's slightly muffled through the mask.

For a minute, I think he says rape and I'm about to unleash every ounce of fury I have, death or not. But then someone is already on me while a woman nears me with rope in her hands like I'm a damn hog they caught.

"Get the fuck off of me!" I yell, kicking the man that holds me down square in the face, like I have countless times before, aiming to break it.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" He looks like he might punch me, but I'm ready for it.

It looks like I did a number. Blood already gushes down his lips. He doesn't reach for his face, however, and continues to restrain me as his blood drips on my clothes, which unnerves me. He handles pain well, then. I stare at him long enough to see he's got one blue eye, the other brown, and both are full of immense hate. 

Then, the one on the black horse rides by, jumping down off while his horse slows its trot. Seeing the mask haunts me in deep ways that subdue me more than any rope could.

"Knock her out," the Zenith says.

"Like hell—"

I'm not sure who hit me, but in that very next second, I'm out like a wet candle wick.