Ashflayer

Flames.

Green, at that.

That’s the only reason they kept me.

I had the ability to produce sparks and fire from my very hands ever since I was born into that avian‑cursed tribe. Their words are still memorable…

“The Hunt accuses them…”

“The Wild’s provisions have been damaged…”

All the while she stared down at me, pearlescent eyes piercing through.

“So? How do you plead?” Her beak snaps with every word.

I look back at the Feral for guidance…

…but instead, the void stares back.

“I‑“

“Silence. Time is up. Send him to the wetlands. He deserves the punishment of the cold.”

Claws and webbed feet snatch onto me, pulling me back. “No! I’m not ready yet!” My robe tears and tatters in my resilience against the others… but it was too much.

One leg through the portal.

Another.

An arm.

Reaching out.

A verdant flash.

A scream…

…overrun by the roar of an inferno.

And it is sealed.

The ground squelched when I fell onto it. The cold immediately pierced through the rips of my cloak. I was too weak to get up. Too angry to try.

I don’t remember exactly how long it was, but a small voice squeaked above me. “Hello? Who’re you? Are you okay?” I opened my eyes. A short, squat boy with a hammer with a green leaf stood above me. Rage incubated inside of me.

“Are you okay, sir?

“Er… yes. Could you, uh, help me up?”

I outstretch a hand.

“Why, I’d love to!” His short, chubby hand meets mine…

and he ignites.

Flames envelope his body, his screams piercing. It made quick work of him… the last thing I could remember is that hand, outstretched as it melted into a puddle of lime brimstone.

Now, can you pardon me that I didn’t shake your hand, Stalker?