The Crimson Willow Sect slept beneath the silver gaze of the moon.
But Aryan didn't.
He sat cross-legged on the rooftop of Dorm 43, his silhouette blending with the night wind. Below, disciples snored in fragile peace, unaware that a storm older than the mountains had taken root among them.
Aryan's gaze pierced the horizon. His senses were sharp, his flame pulsing slow and quiet—contained, yet alive.
He felt it again.
The presence.
It lingered like smoke, just out of reach. Watching. Testing. It wasn't ordinary. Not a disciple. Not even a sect elder.
Something ancient.
Something wrong.
He closed his eyes and whispered beneath his breath. Ancient sigils flickered under his palm, drawn with embers invisible to the untrained eye. The Flame Seed within him shimmered, responding to the call.
> "You're not the only one who returned," a voice echoed in the wind.
Aryan's eyes snapped open.
No one stood before him. Yet the voice—familiar, distorted—rattled his very core. Not a memory. Not a hallucination.
Real.
He dropped down from the rooftop in silence and vanished into the shadowed woods outside the sect walls. He moved like a phantom, every step calculated. The trees whispered secrets to him, and the cold earth hummed beneath his soles.
A grove waited.
Old. Untouched.
Moonlight spilled over a ring of ancient stones.
In the center, a figure stood cloaked in black flames, unmoving—facing away.
Aryan didn't speak. Neither did the figure.
They simply stood in silence… until the wind died, and time seemed to hold its breath.
"You remember me," the figure said finally, voice like cracked embers.
Aryan's flame surged.
"I never forgot."
---
Author's Note:
The shadows are beginning to move, and not everything in this world is what it seems. Aryan's past isn't the only secret buried in the ashes. Thank you for reading! Don't forget to add to your library or drop a comment—it helps more than you know.
— R.E. Solcrest