Flaming Wisp burned low at the garden's edge, chains dragging in the dead soil. It had done this once before, long ago. It had crept into the first garden, lit rage in a man's heart, and watched him kill his brother. Now it wanted more. It wanted to chain the one who made the garden, the same way steel locks had once chained itself. But first it had to cross the withered bed without going out. A cold thing moved along the row of sickly plants. The guardian walked slow, its pale hands open. Wherever an ember drifted, it closed a fist and the light died. It left a trail of black smoke and silence. Flaming Wisp felt the air chill as the guardian neared. One touch of those hands and its fire would gutter to nothing. Flaming Wisp pulled its flame tight against the energy core, small as a candle. It drifted behind a drooping stem. The chains betrayed it. They scraped stone and rang out. The guardian turned. But it was not alone now. A tall figure stepped between the temple pillars. Golden robes, scarlet trim, hair like a red mane. Blue fire burned in his eyes. He carried a staff topped with a lion's head, a black vine coiled down the shaft. Solarius Leonheart had come for the escaped prisoner. Flaming Wisp knew him at once. This was the hand of the one who built the iron cage. "You slipped the lock," Solarius said. His voice was calm, which was worse. "I will hang you in the spire. The river will keep watch so you never wander again." Behind him, past the temple steps, a narrow boat waited on black water. A hooded phantom stood aboard, lantern raised on a long pole. The Boatman watched the garden, hungry to be seen and freed. He pointed the lantern at Flaming Wisp's hiding place. "There," the phantom hissed. The guardian lunged. Cold fingers reached for the flame. Flaming Wisp did not run. It chose. It let its fire roar out all at once, a burst that it had held back for this. The guardian's hands met flame, not ember, and the flame won. The cold thing cracked and fell to ash. Black smoke poured upward. Solarius swung the staff. The lion's head split the smoke. He was fast, faster than the chains allowed Flaming Wisp to be. The staff struck the stone where the flame had hung a heartbeat before. Flaming Wisp tore free through the smoke, chains whipping sparks across the altar. It escaped by a flicker, no more. The burst had cost it. Its fire ran thin and low, barely alive. Behind, Solarius lowered the staff and watched the smoke clear. He did not chase. He smiled. "Run, then," he said. "You burn weaker now. The spire will wait." The Boatman, his gaze once more dropping to the surface of the River of Dead things turned his skiff downriver, following the dim trail of smoke, seeking the Flame and his chance to be free of his own curse, to cross others over the river forever. Somewhere out there an evil Flame barely burned, seeking to escape being snuffed out and becoming a mere ember in a cage forever.