Raenok Sparks's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Raenok crouched outside his bone hut, sharpening a flint by the door of scorched antlers. Smoke from old fires still clung to the place. He wanted one thing — to become the arsonist every human village whispered about in fear. But want did not feed him. He had no coin, no oil, no spark powder. Only scars and patience. A wet snort broke the swamp's silence. From the reeds stepped a skeletal horse, red mane dripping, ribs showing through rotted hide. On its back sat a hooded rider, face hidden. Raenok did not run. He had learned long ago that running marked you as prey. The rider dismounted and dropped a half-burned book at Raenok's feet. Pages curled black at the edges, but the numbers were clear — a settlement's coin, crops, and watch shifts. "Proof," the hood rasped. "The place is soft. Burn it to ash, and you'll be paid after." Raenok's jaw tightened. Across the bog, he could see the burned-out tree where this stranger had been watching him — an owl still perched in its hollow, ash drifting like snow. So the hood had studied him. Knew his hut. Knew his hunger. That was worse than any blade. "No coin, no fire," Raenok said. He kicked the ledger back into the mud. "Pay first, or find another match." The rider stood still a long moment, then mounted the dead horse and rode into the mist. Raenok watched until they vanished. The job was refused — but now a stranger knew where he slept, and that debt would come collecting.