The Break of Day

Chapter One: The Legacy of Fire

Solis Sole was born from a family of war heroes. His father, Paeter Sole, was known as the Invincible General; his mother, Masmara Sole, earned the name the Ghost. From them he inherited not only a legacy of expectation but a striking presence: golden skin that caught the light like bronze, eyes the clear blue of a summer sky, and hair black and straight, always worn neat as though discipline itself ran through him. He carried himself with the quiet strength of one raised under unyielding standards, a man taught that praise was only given when the extraordinary had been achieved.

Theirs was a household where greatness was the expectation, not the exception. Solis was taught discipline before kindness, toughness before tenderness. Praise was rare. It only came when he met the impossible standards his father demanded, and even then, it was offered as though it were nothing more than his duty.

His gift was fire. Sparks that could leap from his skin, tongues of flame that could coil around his hands, even the power to let one part of his body become fire itself—an arm wreathed in flame, a leg that burned as it struck. His father saw this as promise.

“This is potential, Solis,” Paeter told him more than once, standing tall in his officer’s coat, his voice edged with pride and warning both. “This is proof you could become more than any man alive. The world will need someone like you.”

But Solis didn’t want to be “someone like him.” He didn’t want to march to war or chase after glory.

What Solis wanted was simpler. He buried himself in books, eager for studies, but more than that he turned to the family’s true trade—tailoring. Long before they were warriors, the Soles had been makers of garments. And during the Great War of Legends, Paeter and his father before him had discovered a secret: clothing could be strengthened with one’s very essence.

With blood, and sometimes even strands of hair, a craftsman could weave their power into fabric. A coat might resist blades. A cloak might shimmer against flame. The garment itself carried the spirit of its maker.

To Paeter, this was an extension of warcraft. To Solis, it was art. He practiced diligently after a childhood accident where he set fire to his own shirt, vowing never to let flame ruin his work again. In every stitch, he found peace.

When Solis graduated school, his father expected him to follow the path of command. A Sole belonged on the battlefield—or at least at the head of something grand. But Solis quietly chose a different road. He joined the police, not the army. He wanted structure, responsibility, but not the glory his father craved for him.

Soon after, he transferred away from Huskonia, the sprawling city of his birth, to the small town of Olrun on the outskirts of the Oculus continent. To his parents, this was betrayal. To Solis, it was escape.

He wanted to live without the crushing shadow of the Sole legacy. To be a man, not a symbol. To build a quieter life, one built on duty, craft, and family.

And in Olrun, for a time, that is exactly what he found.

Chapter Two: Olrun

Olrun was not a city of legends. It was a town of routine. The concrete streets echoed each morning with the shuffle of work boots, the ring of bicycle bells, and the steady hum of the occasional car passing through on its way to Gearison. Rows of modest houses stood close together, their windows always open to let in the gossip of neighbors. Markets filled the square at dawn, and by dusk, the tavern spilled with familiar laughter.

Here, nothing stayed hidden for long. A fight at midday was whispered about by sundown. A new coat worn on Sunday was the talk of Monday. For Solis, who had grown up in the vast city of Huskonia under the shadow of greatness, Olrun was a breath of air he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Solis walked its streets not as a general’s son, but simply as Officer Sole. His uniform was simple, his duties grounded: breaking up disputes in the square, keeping smugglers at bay, guiding travelers who strayed too far off the main road. In Olrun, he was not a prodigy, not a weapon, not a name to be feared. He was Solid Sole—the man who could be relied upon, steady as the rising sun.

And for the first time in his life, that was enough.

It was in Olrun that Solis met Inara. She worked at a modest shop near the square, a woman with quick wit and a sharper tongue, known for laughing louder than anyone else in the room. Where his parents demanded perfection, she saw worth in simplicity. She never asked him to prove himself. She never cared that he was the son of Paeter Sole, or that fire lived under his skin. To her, he was simply Solis.

They walked together through quiet evenings, shared meals in the warmth of the tavern, and before long, she had become his anchor. Her presence steadied him more than any training ever had.

When their son was born, they named him Ignea, fitting with the traditions of his lineage as a Sole. Holding him for the first time, Solis felt something no legacy had ever given him: purpose. Not to be the strongest, or the most feared, but to be a father. To build a life worth protecting.

Inara would tease him, calling him “the man on fire,” but only when he paced at night, rocking Ignea to sleep with nervous energy. And though Olrun whispered about the Sole boy who’d married and settled, Solis himself no longer cared for whispers. His world had narrowed to three things: his duty to the town, his love for Inara, and the small hand of his son wrapped around his finger.

For Solis Sole, Olrun was not just a place on the map. It was a choice. A quiet defiance against the destiny his parents had set for him.

And though the fire within him still smoldered, in Olrun it was no longer a burden. It was simply part of who he was husband, father, officer. A man who, for now, only wanted peace.

Chapter Three: into the fire

At first, Solis swore his fire would never define him. It was something to keep private, a tool for survival, not a badge to wear. But Olrun had a way of testing promises.

One evening, a blaze erupted at the trading docks outside Gearison. A crate of unstable material had burst apart, flames swallowing the pier faster than men could flee. Workers screamed as beams collapsed, smoke choking the air.

Solis was on duty when the alarm came. He didn’t think. He ran into the inferno, his jacket searing away in seconds. The fire bit at him, but it could not burn him. Not anymore. For the first time, he let the flame take him, his body glowing with heat as he dragged men from rubble and shielded children with his burning arms.

When it was done, dozens lived who would have perished. The harbor buzzed with one name: Solis Sole. The officer who walked through fire.

Back in Olrun, people looked at him differently. They called him brave, selfless, even heroic. His captain clapped him on the shoulder with rare pride. Neighbors whispered that he was no ordinary man. For once, he felt the weight of praise, the very thing his father had always demanded of him—except here it was given freely, without conditions.

And something inside him shifted. It began small. A smuggler drew a blade one night, and Solis disarmed him by setting his hand alight, searing the weapon’s hilt. Another time, a gang threatened the market square; he turned his arm into fire, the glow alone enough to send them scattering.

He told himself it was only to protect people. Only when there was no other choice. But soon, criminals began to fear the man with flames in his veins. They fled at the sight of him, stories spreading faster than truth.

Inara worried. She asked if the fire was changing him, if the power was becoming more than a tool. Solis only smiled, brushing her hair from her face, telling her it was still him beneath the flame. Still her Solis…

But deep down, even he wondered.

Every time he used the fire, it grew easier. Every time someone praised him, the line between necessity and choice blurred. He wasn’t chasing glory like his father, but the fire gave him something he hadn’t known he missed: respect. Admiration. Fear.

And while Olrun still saw him as their dependable officer, Solis was becoming something else—something brighter, something more dangerous.

Chapter Four: Smoke on the Horizon

Olrun had always been a quiet town. Arguments in the market, the occasional drunk brawl at the tavern — nothing more than the kind of trouble small places always see. But that calm began to shift the day strangers started drifting into town.

They weren’t farmers, or traders, or the kind of travelers who passed through on the way to Gearison. These men carried themselves differently — broad shoulders, hungry eyes, their laughter always a little too loud, their silences a little too sharp.

And behind them came whispers of a name.

Infernus.

At first, he was just a rumor. A Huskonian with skin the color of banked embers, horns curling from his forehead, and eyes green as fresh-cut glass. A small-time boss who ran with gangs the east side of the Oculus continent. Nobody in Olrun had seen him yet, but the town felt his shadow all the same.

Business owners spoke of men demanding “protection” payments. A tavern brawl left two locals beaten so badly they couldn’t walk home. Even the children whispered of a red-skinned man who would take what he wanted.

Olrun had always been tightly knit, its people steady in their routines. But slowly, fear began to loosen those ties. Doors closed earlier at night. Conversations dropped when strangers walked by. The gossip that once filled the streets turned to murmurs, all circling the same name.

Solis felt it too. On patrol, he saw the way people kept their heads down, how shopkeepers fumbled with their shutters at dusk. He’d grown used to Olrun’s problems being small, containable — a thief here, a smuggler there. But this was different. This was organized. This was a shadow spreading through every corner of town.

He spoke of it with Inara over dinner, Ignea asleep in the other room. Inara set her fork down, her eyes fixed on him. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?”

Solis leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “Hard not to. People close their shops early, cross the street when they see strangers. It’s not just nerves. Something’s changing.”

“Infernus.” She said the name carefully, almost like it might summon him. “I’ve heard it twice today. The bakers, the tailor’s wife. They’re frightened.”

“They should be,” Solis admitted, though he hated the weight it put in his voice. “Men like him don’t come for scraps. They’ll bleed the town dry until there’s nothing left.”

Inara reached across the table, taking his hand. “Promise me you won’t rush into this alone.”

He met her eyes, saw the worry in them, and forced a small smile. “I don’t rush, Inara. You know that.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the faint sound of Ignea’s breathing drifted from the other room, steady and peaceful, as if the child was untouched by the shadows gathering outside their walls.

Later that evening, after Inara and Ignea had gone to sleep, Solis took to the streets. Olrun was unnervingly quiet. Windows shut tight, lamps dimmed, doors locked early. It wasn’t the calm of a safe town — it was the hush of a place holding its breath.

He heard it before he saw it: a rough voice, laughter that didn’t belong to Olrun. In the narrow alley by the tavern, two Huskonian men had cornered a shopkeeper against the wall.

One of the goons shoved the man’s chest with a heavy hand, the other pawing at a pouch of coins.

“Protection fee,” the first sneered. “Infernus don’t work for free.”

“Please,” the shopkeeper stammered, clutching the pouch tighter. “I’ve already paid—”

“Not enough,” the second interrupted, his horns catching the lamplight as he leaned close. “You want to keep that little shop of yours? You pay what we say.”

That’s when Solis stepped into the mouth of the alley, boots striking concrete. His voice was calm, even.

“Let him go.”

The two men turned, their green Huskonian eyes narrowing at the sight of the uniform. One sneered. “Look at this. A cop.”

“Not just a cop,” the other muttered, tilting his head. “This is him. The one from the docks. The one who walks through fire.”

Solis didn’t answer, though his palms burned faintly, a glow licking at the edges of his hands.

The first thug grinned wide, showing yellowed teeth. “So it’s true then. The man on fire. Thought you were just a story.”

“Stories don’t walk into alleys,” Solis replied evenly. “Now drop the pouch, and walk away.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes darted between them, trembling. One of the goons shoved him aside and stepped toward Solis, cracking his knuckles.

“You think you scare us? Infernus eats men like you for breakfast.”

Solis let his voice drop lower, steady as stone. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. Not yet. But keep pushing, and you’ll see what happens when I stop holding back.”

The glow in his hands sharpened into flame, and the alley filled with a sudden orange light. The thugs hesitated, their bravado faltering as the heat rolled toward them.

The thug to Solis’s left laughed first, stepping forward. “Show us, then. Let’s see the fire.”

Solis’s eyes narrowed. He lifted one hand, the glow at his palm suddenly roaring to life. With a sharp motion, he thrust his arm forward, and a jet of flame erupted.

The blast caught the first Huskonian square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him hard against the alley wall. He crumpled to the ground with a grunt, smoke rising from his coat.

The second thug snarled and charged. As he ran, his forearm twisted, flesh hardening, reshaping, until it became a jagged blade jutting from elbow to wrist. The sound was sickening, like bones grinding together.

Solis braced, shifting his stance. He couldn’t meet steel head-on. He ducked the first swing, sparks flying as the blade scraped brick. With his free hand, he countered, fist blazing bright as he drove a punch into the thug’s ribs. The smell of scorched fabric filled the air.

The Huskonian grunted, staggered, then swung again, the blade whistling past Solis’s head by inches. Solis retaliated with another burning strike, flames trailing from his knuckles. The fight pressed closer, tighter, both men locked in a struggle of blade against fire.

Then movement flickered in the corner of Solis’s eye. The first thug was rising again, staggering to his feet, rage twisting his burned face. “You’ll pay for that!” he bellowed, lunging forward.

Now there were two.

Solis twisted, barely ducking the blade as the second thug swung wide, but the first slammed into him with raw force. He staggered, caught between them — one hacking with his arm-blade, the other hammering fists at his sides. Every strike pushed him back, every dodge cost him ground.

For a moment, doubt flickered in Solis’s chest. Two against one. Outnumbered. Outpaced.

Then the fire surged.

It crawled up his arms, across his shoulders, down his legs. His chest blazed, his skin glowing as though lit from within. The alley filled with a blinding heat, the walls flickering with shadows.

The thugs froze as Solis’s entire body ignited, fire consuming him from head to toe.

Chapter Five: Flame Mimicry

The alley burned with light. Solis stood at its center, his body no longer flesh and blood but fire itself. His outline wavered, his features blurred in the glow. Where his skin had been was now only flame — roaring, alive, untouchable.

The Huskonians froze, their bravado faltering. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, broken only by the crackle of Solis’s burning form.

Then the one with the blade arm growled. “Tricks. Nothing more.” He swung hard, his jagged arm slashing through Solis’s chest.

The blade passed straight through.

There was no resistance, no spray of blood, no cry of pain — only fire, splitting and reforming around the weapon. The Huskonian’s sneer twisted into confusion. Then pain. Flames clung to his arm, devouring flesh and steel alike, forcing him to wrench back with a howl as his skin blackened and cracked.

The other thug rushed in, fists swinging. His punches landed, but every strike sank uselessly into flame, his skin blistering as though he had plunged his hands into a furnace. He screamed, stumbling backward, cradling his burned knuckles.

Solis didn’t move at first. He didn’t need to. Their own desperation did the damage for him. Their fear filled the alley more than his fire ever could.

For Solis, time slowed. He could feel every flicker, every current of heat that made up his body. He wasn’t just wielding fire anymore — he was fire. Untouchable. Unbreakable. The five minutes stretched before him like eternity, power thrumming through every burning inch of him.

The Huskonians’ eyes, wide with terror, reflected the truth: to them, he was no man at all. He was something else. Something to be feared.

The one with the ruined arm staggered back, dragging his partner with him. “This isn’t over,” he spat, though his voice trembled. “Infernus will hear of this. You’ll burn for real, Sole.”

They fled into the shadows, leaving the shopkeeper cowering against the wall, his pouch of coins still clutched in his hand.

Solis let out a breath though it was no breath at all, only the rush of air feeding flame. He felt the seconds slipping away, the strain already tugging at the edges of his control.

Solis moved through the alley like a living torch, every step leaving scorch marks on the concrete. The power roared inside him, exhilarating and suffocating all at once. He didn’t know how long it would last — only that each passing second dragged him closer to the edge of collapse.

The shopkeeper stared in awe and terror, clutching his pouch of coins so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What… what are you?” he whispered.

Solis didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure himself.

Later, when the fire finally guttered out and he leaned against the wall, shaking, he counted back through the fight, through the struggle, through the moments where he had been nothing but flame.

Four minutes. That’s all it had been. Four minutes where he was untouchable. Four minutes where he wasn’t a man at all.

Chapter Six: The Man After the Fire

Four minutes.

That’s what he counted afterward—leaning against the alley wall, hands shaking as skin fully returned and the glow in his veins sank to coals. Four minutes where he hadn’t been a man at all. Four minutes where fear did more work than his badge ever could.

The alley was quiet now. The shopkeeper had fled, clutching his coins. The scorched marks on brick and concrete were proof enough of what had happened: two black handprints where Solis had braced himself; a long, smeared arc of heat where the blade-arm had carved through the air and met nothing but fire.

Solis straightened, breath still ragged. He flexed his fingers and a faint ember chased the knuckles, then died. The power left an ache behind—like he’d hauled a weight too far, too fast. He wiped sweat from his brow, stared at the steam rising off his skin, and felt a thought land with the dull weight of certainty:

If the flame makes the work easier, I’ll reach for it again.

He hated how true that sounded.

Olrun had the hush of a town that knew something had shifted but hadn’t found the words yet. Curtains twitched as he passed. A dog whined, then thought better of it. Down the block, a porch light clicked off when his shadow crossed it.

At his own door, he paused. The knob was cool. Inside, the house smelled faintly of dinner—and smoke. He shrugged out of his charred jacket before the lock turned fully, hiding it behind his leg as he stepped in.

Inara stood in the soft lampglow, hair tied up, a worry line between her brows she hadn’t had a year ago.

“You’re late,” she said, voice gentle but taut. Her eyes slipped to the darkened patches on his shirt. “And burned.”

“It got heated,” he tried, and winced at himself. “I handled it.”

She closed the distance, fingertips hovering over a singe at his shoulder, not touching, like heat still lived there. “Handled,” she repeated. “Were you alone?”

He shook his head. “Two Huskonian muscle. They were leaning on Karo behind the tavern. I… made them leave.”

Inara studied his face, reading the parts he hadn’t said. “With the fire.”

He could have lied. He didn’t. “Yes.”

A breath left her like she’d been holding it a long time. “Did anyone see?”

Solis glanced past her, toward the small bedroom where Ignea slept, tiny breaths steady and soft. “A shopkeeper. He won’t talk tonight.”

“Tonight,” she echoed. Her hand found his, squeezed. “Solis… be careful which part of you they learn to fear.”

He wanted to say he knew exactly which part that was. He wanted to say the fire was still a tool, not the hand that held it. Instead, he lifted her palm to his lips. “I’ll wash up,” he said. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Be careful,” she corrected, and let him go.

By morning, the alley’s soot had become a story. It ran from stall to stall, sparking on stone and skin, changing shape as it traveled: the officer who glowed like a furnace; the man who couldn’t be cut; the flame that ate a blade and didn’t slow down. Some versions added lightning. Others swore he’d flown.

Solis kept his uniform jacket closed to hide the burns. On patrol, people watched him the way they watch storms—heads lowered, eyes lifted. A few offered stiff nods. Most simply stepped aside.

At the station, his captain—Aldren, heavyset and tired-eyed—watched him pour coffee, then spoke without preamble. “Heard you broke up an alley tax last night.”

“Two men,” Solis said. “Karo’s safe.”

Aldren’s gaze dropped to the scorched edge of Solis’s cuff. “And how’d you make them move along?”

“With conviction,” Solis said. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either.

The captain grunted, then lowered his voice. “You keep the peace, Sole. But keep it clean. If this Infernus wants a spectacle, don’t give him one he can sell.”

Solis held his stare. “If he pushes, I’ll push back.”

“Push with the man,” Aldren said, tapping the badge on Solis’s chest. “Not the myth.”

Solis nodded, but the words stuck. Myth. He’d never wanted to be one. Myths weren’t husbands. Myths weren’t fathers. Myths weren’t allowed to be tired.

At noon, he found a quiet corner behind the station and ran through the night in his head. The first blast. The blade arm. The moment he split like a bonfire and the weapon went through. The hesitation. The surge. The retreat.

He counted again. It still came back the same.

Four minutes.

He felt the number settle into him—not a boast, not a promise. A limit. A boundary line he could walk right to and no farther. It should have comforted him. Instead, it felt like a dare.

He imagined those four minutes in worse places, against worse men, and the part of him trained by Paeter—the part that had learned to measure every edge—began to map them without his permission. Two minutes to break the formation. One to shield civilians. One to end it.

He closed his eyes and saw Inara’s face. He opened them and saw the town that had started to flinch around him.

Four minutes to be untouchable. The rest of his life to carry what people decided that meant.

On his way home, he stopped by Karo’s stall. The man’s hands shook as he handed over a small loaf, insisting on no coin. “For last night,” Karo said. “I… won’t say what I saw. But… thank you.”

Solis set the money down anyway. “Lock up before dusk for a while,” he said. “If anyone asks you for protection, send word to the station.”

Karo nodded too quickly. “Of course. Of course.” As Solis stepped away, he heard whispers ripple outward from the neighboring stalls.

“He burned and didn’t burn…” one voice muttered, uncertain if it was praise or fear.

Another answered in a hushed tone, “No man should be able to do that.”

The words spread quickly, twisting, retold before the truth had even settled. Not a name, not yet — just a story, and the weight of eyes watching him differently than before.

Solis didn’t correct them. He only walked, loaf warm in his hand, limits warm in his mind, and made himself a promise that felt a little like a prayer:

Use the minutes for saving. Not for winning.

He hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Seven: Fire in the streets

Weeks passed, and Olrun began to change.

The man who once kept his flame hidden now carried it openly, flickers curling around his knuckles as he patrolled. He still wore the badge, still walked his beat, but when trouble struck, it was the fire people saw first.

When smugglers fought back, their weapons melted in his hands. When a drunk tried to pull a knife in the tavern, Solis’s eyes flared and the blade warped before it ever touched flesh. A gang of highway bandits thought to test Olrun’s borders; they left with burns across their arms and the taste of fear in their throats.

People began to watch him differently. Not just as Solid Sole, the dependable officer, but as something larger. Children whispered of the man who couldn’t be hurt. Merchants offered him goods for free, muttering thanks he hadn’t asked for. And at the tavern, voices sometimes rose in a dangerous question:

“Why not Iris City? You could be paid for this. You could be honored for this.”

Solis’s answer never changed.

“Iris has its heroes. Olrun has me.”

And it was true. The more he used the fire, the more natural it became. His fists burned without effort, his body hardened against heat and pain. He found the line between control and collapse, and each time he walked it a little longer, a little steadier.

But the stronger his flame burned in Olrun, the further its light traveled.

Far from Olrun’s square, in a dim-lit warehouse on the edge of Gearison, men nursed their wounds and spat their fear into the air.

At the center sat Infernus. His skin was deep red, his forehead marked with thick, curling horns. His eyes glowed a sharp green, like glass catching firelight. He listened as his men stammered through their story — the officer who turned to fire, the alley that burned, the blows they could not land.

When they finished, silence lingered. Infernus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and smiled.

“So the little town has found itself a savior,” he said, voice smooth and low. “And they think he can stop me.”

The men shifted uneasily.

Infernus rose to his full height, broad shoulders filling the space. “Good. Let him burn bright. The brighter the flame, the darker the shadow it casts. And shadows are where I thrive.”

He lifted a hand, the air around it warping as embers drifted from his skin. His grin widened.

“Olrun will learn what fire really means.”

Chapter Eight: The Weight of Fear

The warehouse stank of smoke and sweat. Half a dozen men sat along the walls, hushed, avoiding one another’s eyes. The ones who had fought Solis nursed their wounds in silence, their burns still raw. Nobody spoke until the heavy door creaked open.

Infernus stepped through.

He didn’t need words to quiet the room. His presence was enough. His skin was a deep, smoldering red, his horns curved sharp from a broad forehead, and his frame was thick with muscle like stone carved to move. Every step of his boots echoed, slow and deliberate, until he stood in the center of the floor.

One man tried to rise in greeting. Infernus simply placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down with casual force. The man grunted, wincing, though Infernus hadn’t even broken stride.

“Tell me again,” Infernus said, his voice smooth, low, carrying across the silence like heat across a room. “What stopped you?”

The burned Huskonian stammered. “He—he turned to fire. Our blades, our fists… they went through him.”

Infernus studied him with those green-glass eyes, unblinking. Then, with no warning, he gripped the man by the collar and lifted him off his feet. The others froze. Infernus held him there, dangling, like a child’s toy.

“And you ran.”

The man swallowed, face reddening. “We—we couldn’t touch him.”

Infernus smiled faintly. Then, with one hand, he hurled the man across the floor. He crashed into a stack of crates, the wood splintering.

“You disappoint me,” Infernus said, turning his gaze across the room. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “But you’ve brought me something better than tribute. You’ve brought me a story.”

He stepped into the light of a hanging lamp, the heat from his skin making the air shimmer. “An officer who burns. A town that dares to believe it has a protector.” His grin widened, revealing sharp teeth. “Good. I will take their protector first. Then I will take their town.”

The room stayed silent. No one dared move.

Infernus flexed his massive hand, veins standing out like molten lines across his arm. “Spread the word. Olrun belongs to me. And when their firebrand finally comes to stop me—” his eyes flashed, bright and cruel, “—I will show him what true strength is.”

The smoke had only just begun to clear when Solis arrived. What had once been a row of workshops at the edge of town now lay broken — timber blackened, walls collapsed inward, tools twisted by heat that hadn’t come from accident or chance. The ground still radiated warmth.

People crowded the street, whispering, pale with fear. Children cried as their parents pulled them back from the ruin.

Solis pushed through until he found the survivors. Two men sat against a broken wall, their clothes scorched through, their skin blistered. Another woman stood nearby, her face half-burned, eyes staring into nothing.

“What happened here?” Solis asked quietly, kneeling beside the woman.

She blinked slowly, her lips cracked. “He walked in. Red skin… horns. Didn’t want money. Didn’t even speak. Just… looked at us.” Her voice shook. “Then everything burned.”

One of the men coughed, spitting black soot. His hands trembled as he tried to steady himself. “We tried to run. He didn’t chase. He didn’t need to. The fire followed us. It—” He cut off, looking down at the raw burns across his arms.

Solis swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. These weren’t the scars of a gang brawl. This was devastation left as a message.

“Did he say his name?” Solis pressed.

The man nodded, slowly, as if afraid to even remember. “Infernus. He said Olrun was his now.”

Solis rose, scanning the wreckage, feeling the heat still radiating from the scorched stone. His fists curled. Four minutes. That’s all he had when he became fire. And against a man who could turn whole streets to ash without trying—would it be enough?

Behind him, the whispers spread again, rippling through the crowd:

“The red devil…”

“The horned Huskonian…”

“He’ll burn the whole town.”

Solis turned back to the scarred survivors, forcing his voice steady. “You’re safe now. I’ll see to it.”

As he said it, he never even wondered if the words were true…

At home, the house was quiet when Solis stepped through the door, though he could still smell the faint char of smoke clinging to his uniform. Inara sat at the table, a half-sewn shirt in her hands, though she hadn’t moved the needle in some time. She looked up as he entered, her eyes searching his face.

“I heard,” she said softly. “The workshops. People hurt.”

“They’ll live,” Solis replied, setting his jacket aside. “Infernus made his move. Now I’ll make mine.”

Inara placed the shirt down carefully. “Solis… you can’t fight fire with just fire. Not his. The people—” she hesitated, then steadied her voice. “They say he could burn the whole town if he wanted.”

Solis poured water into a glass, drank, then met her gaze squarely. “He won’t.”

Her brow furrowed. “How can you be so certain?”

“Because Olrun is under my watch,” he said, voice calm but unyielding. “And I don’t let what’s mine burn.”

The firmness in his tone silenced the room. For a moment, only Ignea’s soft breathing carried from the next room, a reminder of the life they’d built.

Inara rose and moved closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Just promise me one thing. That in protecting this town, you won’t lose yourself.”

Solis didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”

And he believed it.

Chapter Nine: The Giant of Water and Stone

It had been nearly two weeks since the workshops burned. Two weeks since Solis had stood among the scarred survivors and sworn Olrun would not fall.

In that time, the town had grown uneasy. Markets opened late and closed early. The tavern’s laughter had turned quieter, shorter. Mothers pulled children off the streets before dusk, and neighbors whispered across fences in voices they thought could not be heard.

Everyone was waiting. Waiting for the next strike.

It came on a grey evening, as the bells of the chapel tolled the hour. The square was half-empty, merchants already shuttering their stalls, when the ground began to tremble. At first, people thought it was thunder rolling off the mountains. Then they saw him.

Drennek.

A Pollurin giant, nearly two and a half meters tall, his grey skin mottled like stone. He moved with deliberate weight, each step echoing against the buildings. Where his hand brushed the ground, puddles rippled unnaturally, water shifting as though alive. His eyes were nothing but pale scars, yet his head turned unerringly toward every sound, every heartbeat.

The townsfolk fled, carts abandoned, doors slammed shut. But Solis didn’t run. He stepped into the center of the square, the lamplight catching faint fire along his fists.

“You’re far from home,” Solis said, his voice carrying in the empty air.

The giant halted, tilting his head. “Not far enough. Infernus sends his will. You are in the way.”

“Then it’s me you deal with,” Solis replied, steady as stone.

Drennek grinned, a slow crack across his broad face. “Good. I wanted to feel your flame for myself.”

He pressed a massive hand into the trough at the edge of the square. The water leapt upward instantly, twisting into ropes that coiled like serpents. “I’ll drown you, little flame.”

And the battle began.

Solis’s palms flared, orange fire spilling into the square as he thrust forward a roaring blast. The heat lit the cobblestones, streaking toward the Pollurin giant.

Drennek didn’t flinch. He stretched out a massive grey hand toward the fountain at the square’s center. The water within shuddered, then burst upward in a twisting column, bending to his will. With a sweep of his arm, the column curved, slamming into Solis’s fire.

Steam exploded in a deafening hiss. The flame was smothered before it could touch him.

When the fog cleared, Drennek was still standing tall, his grin cutting across his stone-like face. “That’s your fire?” he rumbled. “Small. Weak. I’ll be done before the night is done.”

Solis narrowed his eyes, fists igniting again. He hurled another blast, then another, streaks of flame cracking through the evening air.

Drennek’s hand swept over the fountain once more. The water surged outward like whips, coiling and lashing at each strike. Every fireball hissed out before it could land, steam filling the square in choking bursts.

Then one whip caught Solis across the chest. It threw him back against a wall, his breath crushed from his lungs. He staggered, pain jolting through his ribs.

From across the mist, Drennek’s pale blank eyes turned directly to him. “I see you, officer,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “I feel every step you take. Every heartbeat. You cannot hide from me.”

Solis steadied his stance, the flames in his fists dimming but refusing to fade.

“I’m not running,” he said, his voice carrying through the mist. “You won’t scare me,  or this town, for much longer!”

Drennek’s grin widened at Solis’s words, his jagged teeth gleaming in the lamplight.

The water exploded upward, spiraling into thick coils that lashed across the square. One whip struck the cobbles where Solis had stood a heartbeat earlier, shattering stone, sending fragments skittering. Another cracked against his side as he rolled away, the impact bruising even through the heat of his aura.

Solis answered with fire — twin streams that shot from his palms, arcs of searing flame that carved through the mist. They struck the water-serpents, hissing and roaring, but Drennek drew more liquid from the fountain, overwhelming the blasts. For every flame, there was a flood. For every spark, a surge.

Solis ducked another strike, his lungs burning from the thick steam curling around them. He pushed forward, fists blazing, but Drennek’s aura-sense caught every movement. The giant pivoted with uncanny precision, his massive leg swinging. The kick caught Solis in the chest, hurling him across the square.

The officer slammed hard against the stones, coughing, his ribs aching. For a moment, the fire flickered in his hands, nearly gone.

Drennek advanced, looming, each step heavy enough to rattle the ground. “You are no protector,” he growled. “You are kindling. When I am done, this town will see what real strength looks like.”

Solis staggered up, breath ragged, heat rising in his chest. He looked at the fountain — at the endless supply Drennek wielded. His ordinary flames would never be enough. Not against this.

He clenched his fists tighter, forcing the fire within to surge higher, hotter, until the glow around him shifted. No longer orange, but white. The air itself began to ripple with the promise of unbearable heat.

Solis drew in a ragged breath and let the fire take him.

His body blurred, flesh and bone replaced by living flame. His outline wavered in the mist, every step leaving glowing prints that smoldered in the stone. For a heartbeat, the square was silent — a man turned fire, untouchable.

He surged forward, swinging a blazing fist. The heat cracked the cobbles as he drove it into one of Drennek’s water-serpents, vapor exploding in a violent hiss. The giant staggered back, surprised for the first time.

But Drennek’s grin soon returned. He thrust his arms outward, pulling more from the fountain, the water rising in thick cords that lashed through the air.

One whip struck Solis square across the chest. Pain ripped through him — not like steel or fists, but like being doused and burned at once. The flame flickered where it struck, part of his mimicry sputtering out before he forced it alight again.

Another lash snapped against his leg. He dropped to one knee, steam hissing from the wound as the fire struggled to hold. His body screamed in protest, but he clenched his fists, refusing to let the flames die.

“You bleed steam, officer,” Drennek taunted, his blank gaze locked onto Solis. “Even fire drowns when the flood is strong enough.”

Solis rose, his form flickering, unstable but unbroken. “Then I’ll burn hotter,” he growled, “until there’s nothing left for your flood to cling to.”

He pushed forward again, every strike of his flaming fists clashing against the rushing water, the square filling with deafening hiss and boiling mist.

Solis roared and surged forward, his body a storm of flame. He unleashed everything he had — fists burning, streams of fire bursting from his palms, arcs of heat slashing through the mist.

Each strike forced Drennek back. The giant swung his arms wide, pulling torrents of water from the fountain, but the onslaught was relentless. Fire smashed through the serpents, evaporating streams before they could coil around him. The hiss of vapor filled the square, drowning out every other sound.

Then a fist of pure fire crashed into Drennek’s chest. The giant staggered, his grin faltering as heat cracked the stone-like texture of his skin. For the first time, Solis felt victory within reach.

But Drennek wasn’t finished.

With a guttural roar, he swung his massive arm like a club. It smashed through the steam and caught Solis squarely across the ribs. Pain exploded through him. His flame mimicry sputtered, his form flickering like a candle in a storm.

He hit the ground hard, the fire in his body dimming dangerously. For a heartbeat, he almost lost it — the transformation slipping, his body half-flesh, half-fire. The heat faltered, his chest screaming with the weight of the blow.

Drennek loomed above him, water spiraling into a blade at his arm’s end. “Your flame dies here.”

Solis kneeled there in his pain. He felt the seconds slipping away, his time in this form nearly spent.

And in that moment, he understood: he had one chance left. One strike.

Clenching his fists, he dragged every ember, every spark, every ounce of fire inside him into one final surge. His body flared white-hot, the mist vanishing instantly as the air itself warped with heat. The stones beneath him cracked, glowing red.

Drennek hesitated, aura-sense recoiling against the unbearable heat.

Solis rose with a roar, his form blazing brighter than ever before, and thrust both arms forward.

A torrent of flame erupted not a blast, but a wave, engulfing the Pollurin giant completely. The square shook with the force of it, the fountain water flashing into vapor in an instant.

Drennek screamed as the fire consumed him, his massive form staggering backward, thrashing against the blast. The heat didn’t just burn his skin, it broke him, searing through the stone-tough hide until his roar collapsed into silence.

When the fire finally dimmed, the giant lay motionless, steam rising from his body.

Solis staggered, his flame mimicry collapsing. His body returned to flesh, charred uniform clinging to sweat-soaked skin. His chest heaved, his vision blurred, every muscle screaming from the strain.

But Drennek was down. Defeated.

Solis forced himself to stand tall, even as his legs trembled. The square was silent, townsfolk peering from shuttered windows, wide-eyed. They had seen the fight. They had seen him endure.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The ruined fountain, the scorched stones, and the fallen Pollurin spoke louder than words.

Chapter ten: Embers in the dark

The news reached Infernus before dawn.

He sat in the shadowed chamber of an abandoned factory outside Gearison, the glow of dying coals flickering across his deep red skin. Around him, his men kept their distance. None dared approach too close.

The messenger knelt, head bowed low, voice trembling. “Drennek is down. The officer… the fire one… he burned him.”

Silence.

Infernus leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. His horns cast jagged shadows along the wall as he studied the man at his feet. The faint green glow of his eyes never wavered.

“Down,” he repeated softly, the word rolling like thunder. “My giant. My wall of stone. Felled… by a man in uniform.”

The messenger swallowed hard, not daring to answer.

Infernus stood. His sheer size filled the chamber, his muscles coiled beneath crimson skin, every movement radiating power. He paced once, twice, then turned sharply. His hand snapped out, seizing a wooden crate. With casual force, he crushed it into splinters.

The men around him flinched.

“He is no hero,” Infernus said coldly, shards of wood falling from his hand. “He is a flame. And flames…” He smiled, sharp teeth glinting. “…they always burn out.”

He stepped closer to the messenger, lowering his voice to a hiss. “Olrun believes it has a protector. Good. Let them cling to that hope.” He straightened, his presence filling the room. “Because when I take it from them, the despair will feed me more than their coin ever could.”

His eyes glowed brighter, a cruel fire dancing behind them. “The officer wants to play fire against fire? Then I will show him a blaze that cannot be smothered.”

The room stayed deathly quiet as Infernus spread his arms wide, the air around him shimmering with oppressive heat.

“Gather every man. Every blade. Every ounce of fear you can carry.” His voice rose, no longer soft but commanding, undeniable. “Olrun will not just kneel, it will burn..!”

Chapter Eleven: The Tempered Flame

Two days had passed since the fight with Drennek.

The square still bore the scars: scorched cobblestones, the shattered fountain standing dry and cracked, its once-constant water reduced to silence. Townsfolk avoided it now, as though the ruin itself still smoldered with the giant’s defeat. They whispered of the battle, of fire clashing with flood, but none spoke too loudly.

Solis had taken the time to rest, though rest did not come easily. His ribs ached, his body carried the bruises of a man who had been hammered against stone, and the memory of nearly losing his flame form lingered in his mind. But he had survived. More than that — he had endured. And now, he needed to know what that meant.

At dawn, he left Olrun behind and walked out to the flatland east of the town. Here, scrub and dry stone stretched into the distance, far from houses, far from watchful eyes. The sun crept low across the horizon, turning the sky a pale amber.

Solis shed his battered jacket, drew in a breath, and let the fire take him.

The flames surged from within, consuming him until his body blurred into pure heat and light. Flame mimicry wrapped him whole, brighter and sharper than before. He became fire incarnate, and the morning air recoiled from his presence.

This time, he counted.

At one minute, he loosed streams of fire that burned twice as far as they had before, arcing into the open sky and leaving glowing trails behind them.

At three minutes, he clenched his fists, striking at stone. The rock didn’t merely crack — it vaporized, crumbling into ash as white-gold flames roared from his blows. The heat pressed outward, rippling through the air in waves.

At five minutes, he pushed harder. The fire spread beyond his body in rolling bursts, waves of heat that scorched the earth. What had once been effort now came almost naturally, his power flowing as though the fight with Drennek had broken something open within him.

At seven minutes, his body began to tremble, the strain clawing at his chest, his lungs burning from the inside out. He grit his teeth and held on, refusing to let the fire falter.

At eight minutes, the flames guttered all at once, vanishing, leaving him gasping on his knees in the dirt. Sweat poured from his brow, his muscles quaked, but he was smiling.

Eight minutes.

Twice as long as before. Twice the time to protect. Twice the reach to strike. Twice the heat to withstand whatever Infernus thought he could bring.

He pushed himself to his feet, his breath steadying, his hands still glowing faintly with embers that curled lazily across his knuckles. His whole body ached, but he had tempered it, forced it through fire until it emerged stronger.

The tempered flame.

Solis looked back toward Olrun, where the smoke of morning cookfires rose into the sky. He thought of Inara’s worried eyes, of Ignea’s small breaths while he slept, of the people who had stood in the square and whispered of monsters.

“Infernus will come,” Solis murmured, his voice low but certain. “And when he does… I’ll be ready.”

He turned back toward the town, his shadow long against the rising sun. The man who had walked out of Olrun that morning was not the same man who now returned. He was harder. Sharper. Tempered.

And when the next fire came, it would not find him unprepared.

Chapter Twelve: What he fights for

The house was quiet.

Solis sat at the table, his body still carrying the ache of combat and the strain of the training he had forced himself through. Today, he allowed himself to rest — not because the fire within him had dulled, but because he knew what waited outside would not.

Inara brewed tea while Ignea ran circles around the table, a wooden toy clattering in his small hands. The house smelled faintly of bread and smoke — ordinary smells, safe smells.

For a time, Solis let himself breathe them in.

He leaned back in his chair, watching his son laugh. The boy’s eyes were bright, filled with a joy untouched by whispers of fire or shadows of war. For a brief moment, Solis let the weight slip from his shoulders.

Inara set the tea in front of him, her hand brushing his as she sat down. “You’re quieter than usual,” she said gently.

“I’m thinking,” Solis replied.

“About what?”

He looked at Ignea, who had now stopped to try climbing onto a chair too tall for him. “About why I can’t lose. Not now. Not ever.”

Inara’s hand lingered on his arm. She didn’t answer — she didn’t need to. She understood.

Later that day, Solis walked through Olrun with Ignea perched on his shoulders. The townsfolk watched him as they always did now, but their eyes softened when they saw the child giggling, clutching at his father’s hair. For a few moments, Solis was not a flame, not a fighter, not a myth — just a man walking with his son.

Karo, the shopkeeper whose life Solis had once saved, offered him an apple with a nervous smile. “On the house, officer.”

Solis took it, split it cleanly with a flicker of flame, and handed half to Ignea, who bit in happily. The crowd relaxed, laughter returning in little waves. For the first time since Infernus’s shadow fell over the town, Olrun breathed.

That night, when Ignea was asleep, Solis and Inara sat by the window. The streets outside were calm, the lamps glowing softly.

“Do you ever wonder,” Inara asked quietly, “what life would be like if we’d gone to Iris City? If you’d taken up that… hero’s path?”

Solis shook his head. “Heroes are for cities. Olrun doesn’t need a hero. It needs someone who won’t back down.” He paused, his voice firm but calm. “Heroes care for pageantry and symbolism — masks, parades, names to be remembered. But that doesn’t make them agents of change. It doesn’t teach them governance. Protecting a place means living in it, bleeding for it, shaping it. That’s what this town needs.”

Inara’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not in anger. “And yet, pageantry and symbolism are what people hold onto when the world crumbles. A mask can be hope. A parade can remind a child they’re not forgotten. Names whispered in fear or reverence — they matter, Solis. Not because they change laws or mend roads, but because they tell people that change is possible.”

Her voice softened as she reached across the table, touching his hand. “You see duty. But others see a beacon. Maybe both have their place.”

Solis leaned back, letting her words settle between them. His eyes drifted to the lamplight flickering across the glass. “Maybe so. But I can’t afford to be a symbol. Not here. Not now. If I start worrying about what people see in me, I’ll forget what I’m supposed to do.”

Inara tilted her head. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re afraid that if you become something larger than a man, you’ll lose the part of you that’s still ours.”

That struck deeper than he cared to admit. For a moment, silence stretched, broken only by the faint creak of the house settling and Ignea’s soft breaths from the next room.

Solis finally exhaled and gave her a small smile — tired, but genuine. “If I lose myself, remind me. Pull me back.”

“I will,” she said without hesitation. “But don’t be so quick to dismiss what you’ve already become. Whether you like it or not, people are already telling stories about you. And stories have power.”

He nodded slowly, though inwardly he bristled at the thought. He had no interest in being a story. But if that’s what it took to keep Olrun safe, then he’d shoulder even that.

Later, they stood by the window. The streets outside lay calm, shadows stretching long, lanterns swaying in the night breeze. Solis’s arm rested around Inara’s shoulders, her warmth grounding him.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like peace. A rare moment where the fire inside him quieted, where he could believe the world was small, safe, and theirs alone.

He held onto that feeling, knowing it couldn’t last.

Far away, across the plains and rivers, the night was not calm.

Torches burned in a ring, casting cruel light over a gathering of hardened men. Infernus stood at their center, crimson skin gleaming, horns catching the glow like jagged crowns. His voice rumbled through the air, low and steady, carrying the weight of command.

“Olrun thinks itself safe behind a single man,” he said. “Then we will tear that man down. We will show them what fear truly means.”

The crowd roared, stamping feet, weapons clattering together.

Infernus raised his massive arm, and the flames of the torches flared as though the fire itself bent to his will. His green eyes burned with cruel certainty.

“Tomorrow we march…”