Spark in the Storm

The storm clawed at him. The unforgiving North meant to tear him down.

Snow swept across the barren fields like a sea turned white, breaking over every ridge and hollow. The gale was merciless, and the roaring rattled his mind. Noel pressed forward step by step, his boots sinking deep into drifts that swallowed all trace of the road.

He had been told this march was a punishment, and punishment it was. A part of him felt he deserved nothing less.

Alone with no shieldmate to steady his footing. No voice to shout a warning if a monster rose from the snow. No hand to help him rise when the ice betrayed him. The North allowed no softness, and the fortress gave no second chances.

The lantern swung from his hand. Its weak glow was a pitiful defiance against the storm. A meager flame, hardly worthy of a shrine of Vael-Arin, but it was all he had. Fire was life here, and life was never given freely.

Noel’s jaw clenched beneath his scarf. He would not beg for more. He had forfeited the right. The weight of his own breath pressed like guilt in his chest, heavy and cold.

One eye for disgrace. Exile for atonement.

The Blinding Ritual had been merciless. Salt and flame, steel and binding cloth. His left eye gone in a single stroke, the socket sealed not with mercy but with a searing judgement. He had not cried out, for he had already accepted what he deserved. Still, the wound throbbed whenever the wind struck his face, a reminder that he bore shame on his body as well as his name.

He had sworn to bear it. To live was punishment enough. Yet each slow step stomped his mind with racing thoughts.

The north cared little for vows, and less for regrets.

His footing faltered. The drift crumbled beneath him and he fell hard to one knee. Ice bit into his palms. For a moment he remained there, head bowed, but duty pulled at him like a chain. To die here would give him no chance to atone. He forced his body to rise, teeth grinding, and pressed forward once more. The exiled noble should at least avoid a senseless death.

A howl broke through the storm.

He froze, hand already on the hilt at his side. Noel had not had to use his weapon at monsters until this point. The central nobility had spoken often of monsters in the north - corrupted spirits that prowled where grief was thickest. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps they were drawn to men like him.

The howl came again, closer now. Shadows shifted in the snow, figures half-seen through the blizzard’s veil.

Noel’s grip tightened on the blade, narrow and black against the drifts. He set his stance. His other hand quickly fastened the lantern to the clasp on his waist, though the glass rattled wildly in the wind.

The monsters closed in. He could see their shapes now - hunched forms, jaws gaping, claws dragging lines in the snow. The air stank of rot and bitterness.

Noel drew his blade fully, breath harsh against the scarf.

The monsters lunged.

Noel moved. His blade cut a black arc through the snow, swift and clean. The first beast fell, black ichor staining the drifts. The second shrieked and lunged for his arm, but he twisted. His blade sang again, and the creature crumpled. Since they were mindless beasts, they were easier to take down.

The problem was the quantity not the quality.

Another howl. Another shadow. He fought as he had been trained - short, efficient strikes. The storm blurred his vision, snow blinding his good eye, but still he fought to survive. For every strike he gave, it seemed another monster quickly took the place of a corpse.

The clash dragged on. His arms grew heavy, every swing slower than the last. Teeth snapped near his shoulder, claws raked against his cloak. A monster’s weight slammed him into the snow and for a moment, cold breath filled his lungs, drowning him in white. He shoved it back, but another quickly took its place. Their numbers pressed on him like the storm itself - endless and merciless.

He staggered, feeling the cold bite deeper, his strength waning. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind, and for a fleeting second, the lantern flickered.

And then the flame within stirred, like a heartbeat answering his own.

At first, he thought the cold had driven him to delusion. But then a surge of heat erupted, violent and alive, bursting from the lantern. Fire roared out in a sudden blaze, searing the nearest beast until it collapsed in a screeching heap. The others shrank away, hissing, retreating into the winter storm. The glow pressed against his hand, not with the steady pulse of oil-fed fire, but with something erratic. Something alive.

Each pulse pressed heat into his side, drove the shiver from his bones, and seemed to whisper a voice he could barely hear.

Noel stood panting, snow soaking his knees, blade dripping black. He remained still, chest heaving. His body begged to collapse. The storm raged louder, daring him to bow down to it once more, but the warmth of the flame rushed bursts of energy through his body.

A small voice rang in his head, faint and tremulous:

“Where… am I? Are you… alright?”

His stare lingered on the light through the blizzard. Inside, the flame shifted again - faint and sentient. The outer permiter seemed to be pulsing. He thought he saw eyes faint as embers. They vanished when he blinked, but the impression remained.

Noel tightened his grip. He did not know what manner of spirit he carried. Whatever type it was, the flame was a miracle.

Did he deserve this miracle?

The feminine voice rang out once more.

"Name’s… Akari! And… you?"

"Noel."

The storm howled on, but within that fragile light, a bond had been forged - one that this dying world could not sever.