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The Freljord was silent, its endless expanse of snow-covered tundra bathed in the pale light of a waning moon. Kegan Rodhe trudged through the frost, his boots crunching against the frozen earth. His breath misted in the air, each exhalation a testament to the bitter cold. Yet the chill no longer pierced him as it once had. A strange warmth burned within his chest, a flame he could not yet touch but that whispered promises of power and vengeance.
He paused at the crest of a hill, staring down at the faint glimmer of light in the valley below. Rygann’s Reach. The village that had exiled him and his mother. The village that had watched her waste away, too proud or too fearful to offer help. Kegan’s grip tightened on the lantern in his hand, its soft glow illuminating his pale, frostbitten fingers.
His mind replayed the moments leading to this night—the disdainful looks, the whispered curses, the cold shoulders turned to his pleas. He remembered her frail body shivering beneath thin blankets, coughing out her last breaths as he sat helpless beside her.
"You killed her." The words echoed in his mind as he descended the hill.
The door of the elder’s house creaked open under Kegan’s touch. Inside, the warmth of a dying fire contrasted sharply with the icy rage that burned in his chest. Rygann, the village elder, stirred awake at the sound, his rheumy eyes squinting to make out the intruder’s form.
“Who's there, show yourself” the old man croaked.
“Guess who” Kegan replied, his voice low but steady. He stepped into the light, the lantern in his hand casting flickering shadows across the room. The elder flinched at the sight of him, at the intensity of his eyes and the sharp edge of his expression.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Rygann began, his voice trembling. “You disgrac—”
Kegan cut him off. “You killed my mother,” he growled. “It wasn’t the disease that took her. It was your mistrust, your ingratitude. You killed her, day by day, by turning your backs on her. And now you want me gone, too.”
“Please—”
“Silence.” Kegan stepped closer, raising the lantern. The firelight illuminated the resinous streaks he had painted across the walls, the floor, the bed. The elder’s eyes widened in horror as he realized the trap surrounding him.
“No—wait!” Rygann pleaded, his voice breaking. “You don’t have to do this!”
Kegan’s lips curled into a cold smile. “You’re right. I don’t have to. I want to.”
With a flick of his wrist, Kegan shattered the lantern on the floor. Fire roared to life, engulfing the room in an instant. Rygann’s screams filled the air as flames licked at the walls, consuming everything in their path. Kegan stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the inferno, his laughter mingling with the crackling fire.
The flames rose higher, searing the ceiling and reflecting in Kegan’s eyes. He felt something stir within him, a spark deep in his core. The warmth he had carried for so long erupted into a blaze, and fire burst forth from his hands, uncontrollable and wild. He staggered back, staring in awe and terror as the flames danced around him, consuming everything in their path but leaving him untouched.
By dawn, Rygann’s Reach was nothing but ash and smoldering ruins. Kegan stood at the edge of the village, his clothes singed, his face streaked with soot.
He turned his gaze to the horizon, to the vast expanse of the Freljord stretching endlessly before him. The fire within him burned brighter now, no longer a whisper but a roar. It demanded more—more fuel, more destruction.
And Kegan, reborn in the flames, was all too eager to oblige.
As he walked away from the ruins, the wind carried his parting words.
“Let them remember me. Let them remember the fire.”