Chapter 25

What will I always choose?

What do I refuse to become?

The questions remained at the forefront of Pyre’s mind as he sat before the Font of Eternity, eyes closed, breath slow, the pressure of the Nether settling over him like a weight that did not crush but insisted.

At first, there was only light.

Pervasive as always, but he had grown used to this by now. The Font’s radiance soaked into him, threading his Anima, filling what seemed like hollow spaces left by exertion and strain. Pyre had felt this before from the Font. Everyone had. But this time, Pyre did not let the warmth carry him away.

He stayed present inside it until the pressure deepened, until something stirred.

Yet again he found himself remembering Farreach, but not as it had been at the end, not burning or broken, overwhelmed by the Hunger and its Devourers, but before it had even earned its name.

A coastline. Crude boats pulled up onto wet stone. Families disembarking with what little they had left.

Pyre remembered the voyage more as a sensation than image, the months at sea, the endless rocking, the sickness that wracked his body as a child, the fever that burned through him until even his breaths faltered.

The sea chills took young and old alike, including his mother, who had died halfway through the journey.

He remembered overhearing his uncle later, speaking in low tones, wondering aloud how Pyre had lived when stronger bodies had failed. Pyre had never had an answer for him at the time, especially not as a young man, but now he was starting to understand through his Domain why he had persevered, why he had survived the voyage.

The next memory was the moment Farreach took shape into a colony. Foundations laid in salt and sweat, everyone pitching in. Walls raised too quickly and were repaired even faster, homes following, the colony soon morphing into entire districts as more ships arrived bringing more people and new goods.

By the time Pyre was ten, Farreach had teeth. By the time he was twelve, it had ambition and a place in their realm, if only they were able to protect it and expand.

His father had been one of the explorers.

Pyre followed him whenever he could, drawn less by glory than by motion, by the act of pushing outward, challenging the known world and what it had in store for them. Along with other bands of explorers, they hunted monsters in the wildlands beyond the city, charting territory that did not want to be known.

The group of explorers were cautious and capable, campaign after campaign ending without disaster as they pushed farther and farther until they were too deep…

The pressure tightened at the final memory of his father, the moment that had changed the course of Pyre’s life and put him onto a much rockier path.

It had been a summer night, their group now in a new territory leagues away from Farreach, a camp half-made and barely defended. Pyre remembered the sound first—the way something moved through the darkness with weight and confidence. A monstrous shape emerged, bristled hair standing on end, upright and massive, claws so heavy they raked against the ground.

The beast hit the camp like a force of nature, men dying before they could scream.

In his last act of bravery, Pyre’s father charged the monster with a sword, the blade biting into its side. For a brief moment, Pyre believed it might be enough. He believed his father had done it, that he had saved the rest of the group from the monster’s wrath.

The beast turned.

It seized his father by the neck and tore his head free in a single motion, spine exposed, life ended without ceremony.

Pyre had buried that image for years, but the Font did not let him look away.

He remembered the terse moments that followed as the remaining men fought back against the monster, finally able to wound it. Steel landed, and blood followed, but the monster did not slow.

By the time the clouds parted above the camp, everyone was dead except Pyre, who hid in the collapsed tent, frozen and shaking, obeying the last order his father had given him as he handed Pyre a large dagger: Stay, son. Don’t move until it’s gone.

But the monster never left. It came toward Pyre instead, bleeding, dragging its clawed hand, still on the hunt.

Pyre moved before he could think.

He rushed the beast and stabbed, the impact throwing him aside and into a tree.

Pyre’s arm broke on contact. He hit the ground hard as the monster leapt for him.

He rolled, and claws raked across his back, opening him from shoulder to hip. Pyre crashed through a patch of thorned plants, pain flaring white-hot as sap burned into the wound.

His broken arm scraped against stone and root as he tried to scramble free, screaming not in fear, but in refusal.

The monster lunged again and stumbled, giving Pyre just a moment to gather his wits and find something to kill it with.

He grabbed a fallen spear, tucked it under his broken arm, and drove it forward with everything he had left. The tip sank deep, and Pyre leaned into it, pinning the creature in place, holding on as it died, as tears of anger streamed down his face.

When it was over, Pyre stood alone in the ruin of the camp, bleeding, shaking, very aware that he should not still be alive.

He had prayed to Karastella then.

Not for victory, nor vengeance, but for survival, for the strength to keep moving, to somehow, against all odds, make it back to Farreach.

After making a sling for his arm, he gathered what he could—plants, pelts, topographical maps—the reason they had come in the first place. When his bag was full, he wrapped more in a tent and dragged it behind him with his good shoulder, the spear tucked under his broken arm, each step forward brutal.

He did not know the way back, so he relied solely on instinct, on the things his father had taught him.

Two days passed this way, Pyre dragging the supplies, screaming and thrusting his spear at smaller predators. He walked when he should have collapsed, carried only by his delirium and a stubbornness that manifested as his will to live until finally, when he was certain he couldn’t go any further, Pyre heard seagulls.

The relief nearly broke him then, and it did the same now as he sat before the Font of Eternity.

Yet the pressure remained, Pyre still, eyes closed, refusing the easy release of waking.

What will I always choose?

The answer surfaced without hesitation.

Survival.

What do I refuse to become?

The answer that followed defined his Domain.

A victim.

The Font grew brighter, even with his eyes closed. Understanding struck Pyre, sharp and clean, as he saw the years that followed: his return to Farreach, bloodied and silent, the only survivor.

He did not speak for a year after the incident. When asked where it had happened, he could only point.

His aunt and uncle took him in, but they already had six children and sometimes, food was scarce. Patience scarcer. Pyre learned to fight again—not with weapons this time, but with endurance, for his meals, for his personal space, for the right to exist without apology.

Two years later, he joined the militia, ready to give back to Farreach.

He was the youngest in the group, yet he remained relentless.

Old Danar took Pyre in and taught him discipline instead of cruelty. He met others in his service, people who believed in something larger than survival alone, like Master Jorren and his daughter, Rena. Alongside like-minded folks, Pyre took every mission offered. Rescue, foraging, raids, patrols into the marshlands—it didn’t matter.

He had never cared for Farreach’s politics, and the draught had never tempted him. He had no need to escape his own mind; Pyre already knew what it meant to stand inside pressure and refuse to break.

And now, in Aevum, in the center of it all, the Font of Eternity pressed harder.

Even if it seemed like anger and rebellion, Defiance was more than just shouting at the world.

Defiance was standing when the world demanded collapse, choosing motion over surrender, refusing to let someone else decide what he would become. Defiance was continuing after the choice was gone, endurance without audience, refusal without reward.

Pyre finally opened his eyes.

The others were gone, even Sister Halcyon. The Font loomed before him, radiant and indifferent, with all its worshippers and more taking the Long Walk toward rebirth.

Still seated, Pyre summoned his Sigil.

The broken black blade formed in his hand, flames twisting along its length. It was still fractured, still incomplete, but now it hummed with a new coherence, with intent. The power within it no longer felt reactive; it felt anchored.

Defiance had always been there—it had always been a foundational part of his soul.

Now, it was named.

Pyre stood, and he knew exactly where he needed to go as he turned toward the Hollow.