Among the receding catacombs, near the dark woodland’s escape, crouched a black-hooded figure in restless focus. Neither the gloom nor his low-hanging hood hid the faint bruise beneath his eye or the metallic sheen of blood on his lip.

  Tiny fireballs flickered between his fingers, their warmth deceptively gentle—until a misstep in control sent a sharp sting searing across the untampered parts of his flesh. Each failure chipped away at his patience, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. And when his anger flared, so too did the whispers, curling through his mind like smoke—tempting, waiting.

  And each time, the distance between fury and surrender grew smaller.

  When the anger grew unbearable, Kulum would grasp the metal-grated torch beside him, pressing his fire-resistant palms against the direct flame to overcome inner pain with outer suffering. The hiss of heat against skin was a cruel but familiar balm.

  And yet, as he fed this ritual of control, his eyes began to roll back, the burning white consuming his sight. The flame in his hand no longer obeyed his will but hovered with unconscious intent, alive in its manipulations. The fiery shape contorted and twisted, folding in upon itself until it birthed a tiny phoenix.

  The glowing creature flitted through the stale, moist air, seeking freedom—a true sky of starlight. But it could not escape. A thin, magical leash clung tightly around its neck, tethered to Kulum’s inner demon. It struggled in vain, an embodiment of his desire for release—corrupted by his fear of letting go.

  The sound of footsteps broke through the stillness, accompanied by a flashing green light emanating from deeper within the catacombs. Kulum clapped his hands together, extinguishing the phoenix in an instant. His white-clouded eyes returned to normal as he rubbed them firmly, ridding himself of any evidence of impropriety.

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  As the dissenting eight wizards rounded the corner, they faltered, in lock step with a waiting Bjarke, unmoving and ready. The demon slayer stood still, his massive, green-glowing battleaxe alive with a sound like boiling tension, evaporating the dampness in curling wisps.

  “Reveal yourself,” Bjarke called.

  “He’s under my stewardship,” Verivix interjected, stepping forward. “Kulum. Acquaint yourself.”

  “Yes, master,” Kulum replied with a tired drawl as he folded back his thick hood that had shadowed his face. Bruises and discolored patches marred his otherwise youthful features, a canvas of pain barely hidden by the cloak. Extinguished embers still smoldered faintly in his palms as he stepped forward and bowed.

  “I am Kulum, manipulator of the flame, at your service,” he continued.

  “You know I, boy?” Bjarke asked, his battle-axe poised to strike at the slightest misstep.

  “He is in control of his faculties, I assure you,” Verivix said, moving quickly to place himself between the demon slayer and his apprentice.

  Bjarke’s flicked his focus towards Verivix “Those scars across face tell otherwise.”

  “And the bruises across his are proof of the depths of his restraint,” Verivix retorted. “Shall I test him further?”

  Kulum spoke before the challenge could escalate, the tension coiling in his gut. “My demon may be part of me, but it is not me. I am Kulum. It is I who manipulates the flame—not it.”

  Bjarke stepped closer, his towering frame looming over the lanky young Kulum. “Then, boy, stay by master,” he growled, his voice like distant thunder. “Or become notch on Bjarke’s belt.”

  As Bjarke passed, the glowing green blade of his battle-axe swept dangerously close. Heat rolled off it in waves, seeping into Kulum’s skin, igniting a pain that ran deeper than flesh. Faint cracks spiderwebbed along his exposed arms, the heat scalding him from within. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he recoiled, retreating into the folds of his cloak—thin protection against a presence that burned beyond the physical.

  His face twisted in silent anguish as he hid, alone and unshielded, exposed to a destiny he could neither escape nor control—a lost child curling in on himself, caught between forces that would see him either broken or bound.