Major Razer of the Road
- Ashfall -
An eerie silence had settled like ash across the ruined village.
It hadn’t been quiet for hours—not since the screaming began. Not since the roofs caught fire and the ponies bolted through the narrow lanes, shrieking like men. Smoke still clung to the broken thatch, curling skyward in slow ribbons, as if reluctant to leave the carnage behind.
I walked forward. My boots left black impressions in the soot-covered ground. Each step felt holy.
The buildings around me were skeletons now—windows shattered, beams sagging, their insides gutted by flame. The darkness lingered here, thick and solemn, nestled in the corners of every home. It loomed above, in the choking night sky. But most of all, it pulsed quietly in the hearts of those who remained.
A mark blackened one wall—a soot-ringed hand, fingers splayed, scorched into the timber.
They had made the sign. The Burning Hand had passed through here.
I ran my gloved fingers through the ash beneath it. Still warm. Still speaking.
I smiled.
The darkness had always been here. They simply pretended it wasn’t. Hid it in prayer, in tradition, in superstition. All I did was call it by name—and it answered.
The flame showed me this place three nights ago. Not in sleep, but in waking—a shape in the smoke, a hand reaching through the fire. I followed.
I don’t always understand what it shows me. But I walk the path anyway.
Because I was chosen. Because I am strong enough to see it through.
Glass cracked under my heel. A sharp sting followed. I looked down. A sliver of windowpane jutted through the sole of my boot, blood already mixing with the ash. I watched it for a long time.
I didn’t remove it.
Pain is honest.
A figure slumped beside a collapsed doorway, half-lit by the flicker of nearby fire. One of the villagers, or maybe one of mine. It hardly mattered anymore. His head was bowed like a penitent, hands limp across his lap. I crouched and took his chin between thumb and forefinger. His eyes were rimmed red, but steady.
“You,” he whispered.
I tilted my head. “Still breathing.”
He gave the smallest nod. “You said it would come like this.”
I smiled. “And still, they doubted.”
He reached out—not to strike, but to steady himself against me. “I’m ready now.”
I pulled him upright. He fell into step behind me like a lost thing finally found.
I could feel it swelling again—that slow, magnetic pull. It lived inside the broken ones. I didn’t build this fire alone. I merely handed them the match.
More followers waited in the distance, scattered across villages, forests, even cities—our little black seeds, buried beneath polite society. Waiting to bloom.
I am not who I was.
I grew tired of the shame, of the slow-burning poison of worthlessness. The demons inside me once tore at my insides, screeching to be fed. Now they purr like wolves at heel. Now they serve me.
Around the next corner, a shape blocked the road. Hooded, unmoving.
The figure stepped forward and lowered her hood.
Her face was streaked with soot, but I knew her even before I saw the scar across her cheek—one earned in my service. Her eyes locked onto mine, steady as they had always been in battle. Until she broke.
“I expected someone else,” I said.
“I expected a man with vision,” she replied.
I gestured for the others to stay back.
“You were one of the first,” I said. “One of the strongest.”
“I believed you,” she said. “I believed in us. Until you stopped listening to the fire and started pretending it obeyed you.”
Her hand trembled as she drew the knife, but it wasn’t fear. Her conviction had corroded, not her courage.
She charged.
I caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and brought her to her knees. The blade clattered on the stones.
“Do you remember why we called ourselves the Burning Hand?” she asked, gasping. “It wasn’t about power. It was about remaking the world—burning away the rot.”
“I remember,” I said, crouching beside her. “But rot grows back unless the wound is deep.”
She laughed once. Bitter. “You don’t cleanse anymore, Razer. You consume. You think the visions guide you—but you’ve started guiding them.”
“I walk the path because I am strong enough to bear it.”
“No,” she said softly. “You walk it because you're afraid to stop.”
Her words hovered like embers.
Then she touched my arm, lightly. “The fire once spoke to you in riddles. Now it only reflects your hunger.”
I rose.
“Then let it reflect,” I said.
I nodded.
A follower stepped forward and ended her quietly. She folded without sound.
I bent beside her, took her hand, and pressed it to the wall. The flame hissed as it met flesh and wood. A black handprint bloomed in soot—the mark of the Burning Hand.
“This place is claimed,” I said.
But even as I turned away, I felt the fire behind me watching.
Like it was waiting for me to speak first.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
