The fire consumed him.
It was not the fire of warmth. It was not the fire of life. It was a freezing, suffocating cold—green as rotting wood, green as old graves, green as the Eye he had just pressed into his own socket. It spread through his spirit-form like poison through blood, rewriting him from the inside out.
Ryan tried to scream, but the cold fire stole the breath from his lungs.
He fell to the stone floor of the ruined temple, writhing and twisting. His ghostly body contorted in ways that should have broken bones. The green flames licked at his skin, burrowing into his eyes, searing his very soul.
The old man watched.
His dark eyes showed nothing—no pity, no satisfaction, no regret. He simply stood there, ancient and entirely still, watching the boy burn.
And then, Ryan opened his eyes.
He was lying on a wooden bed.
The ceiling above him was made of rough-hewn logs, packed with moss and dried clay to keep out the winter chill. Sunlight streamed through a small window covered with stretched animal hide, casting a pale, warm glow across the room. The air smelled of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and roasting meat.
Ryan sat up slowly.
Where am I? He looked around the small room. A wooden chest. A small table with a clay bowl of water. Furs scattered on the floor. A hunting bow leaning in the corner. Clothes hanging on wooden pegs.
His clothes. His bow. His room.
Ryan scrambled from the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. He stumbled to the window, pushed aside the hide, and looked out.
There was the village square. The stone well where the women gathered each morning. The blacksmith's forge exhaling a thin trail of gray smoke. The old oak tree with its massive, bare branches.
His village.
But that's impossible, his mind raced. It burned. It's gone. I saw it burn.
From somewhere below, a voice called out—a voice that made Ryan's dead heart stop entirely.
"Ryan! Why are you pacing around up there like a trapped wolf? Come down, it's time to eat!"
His mother.
Ryan turned slowly, his breath catching in his throat. He walked to the small mirror hanging on the wall—a simple piece of polished metal—and stared at the reflection.
The face staring back was his, but it was wrong. There were no cuts. No bruises. No ash smeared across his cheeks. His black hair was clean, falling casually across his forehead. His eyes—both of them warm, familiar brown—stared back with mounting terror.
He gripped the collar of his shirt and ripped it open. His chest was smooth. No arrow wounds. No crusted blood. No death.
Am I dreaming? he wondered wildly. The attack, the arrows, the cave, the angel... was it all a nightmare?
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. He could feel something different inside his chest. Something freezing cold. Something waiting.
"Old man?" he whispered to the empty room. "Are you there?"
Silence.
Ryan took a shaky breath. He pulled on his leather tunic, his heavy boots, his belt. The worn leather felt real against his skin. The heavy weight of his boots grounding him to the floorboards felt real.
He opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. He knew every groove in the wood. He had grown up here.
As he approached the kitchen, the smells grew stronger—fat dripping from roasting meat, fresh bread, sweet honey. His stomach gave a violent, painful twist. For a moment, he forgot to be terrified. He was starving.
He stepped into the doorway.
His mother stood at the stone hearth, her back to him, stirring an iron pot. Her blonde hair fell in long waves, tied loosely with a leather cord. She was humming the old harvest song she always hummed when she cooked.
Then, she turned.
Her green eyes—the exact same shade as Ryan's—found him instantly. She smiled. It was warmth itself. It was the absolute safety of childhood that Ryan had thought was gone forever.
"There you are, my son! Come, sit."
Ryan stood paralyzed in the doorway.
His mother's smile faltered. She set the wooden spoon down on the stone hearth and walked toward him, her brow furrowing.
"Ryan? What is it? Why are you crying?"
Ryan touched his face. His fingers came away wet. He hadn't even realized.
She's dead, his mind screamed. I saw her die in the snow. I felt her hand go cold.
But here she was. Breathing. Warm. Here.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her shoulder. She smelled of smoke and herbs and that specific, unnamable scent of home.
"Why are you crying, my brave boy?" she murmured into his hair. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing, Mother," Ryan choked out, his voice cracking. "Nothing. I just... I had a bad dream."
She pulled back, cupping his face in her warm, calloused hands. "Everyone has bad dreams, my son. It doesn't mean you cry like a little boy." She wiped his tears away with her thumb, her eyes full of gentle pride. "You're a big man now. A hunter. Come, eat."
She guided him to the small table and set a wooden plate before him. Slices of roasted meat, dark bread still steaming from the oven, a small pot of honey. Ryan took a bite. The taste was so incredibly rich, so undeniably real, that a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill.
Dreams don't taste like this, he thought, swallowing hard. Dreams don't feel like this.
After he finished, Ryan pushed his plate away. "Mother, I'm going out. I want to find Father."
She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course. Tell him to come home soon. The wind is turning."
Ryan stood, leaned down to kiss her forehead—something he hadn't done in years—and walked out the door.
The dirt path of the main street was exactly as he remembered. Children chased each other between the houses, their laughter sharp in the cold air. Men stood in small circles, repairing nets or sharpening skinning knives, arguing over the coming winter.
Ryan walked through the crowd like a ghost, staring at faces he had watched burn.
"Ryan! You lazy bastard!"
Ryan flinched and turned. A boy was jogging toward him, red hair wild, a heavy quiver of arrows bouncing against his back. Martin.
"Where were you?" Martin demanded, punching Ryan hard in the shoulder. "I told you to be at the square hours ago! But no, you sleep like a fat bear!"
Ryan almost laughed. The sting in his shoulder, Martin's obnoxious voice—it was perfectly him.
"If I went hunting with you, we'd catch nothing," Ryan said, his voice finding its old rhythm. "You stomp through the woods like a blind moose."
Martin's mouth fell open in mock outrage. "This is how you speak to a master hunter? My father says I have the eyes of a hawk!"
"Your father is blind."
Martin barked a loud, joyful laugh. "Okay, maybe a little. But come on! Your father already left for the eastern woods. He'll be back by nightfall. Should we go track him?"
Ryan shook his head, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "No. I'll wait for him here."
"Suit yourself," Martin shrugged, jogging backward toward the gates. "I'm going to kill something huge! Don't miss me too much!"
Ryan watched him go, then walked to the large stone near the village gate and sat down to wait.
Hours bled away.
The sun dragged itself across the sky. The shadows lengthened.
Is this real? Ryan asked himself for the hundredth time. He pressed his hand flat against the freezing stone beneath him. He felt the rough grit of the rock. He felt the biting wind against his neck. It was too detailed.
He touched his right eye. Still brown. Still normal.
Maybe I imagined the cave.
Then, the sun touched the horizon, and the sound began.
Heavy hooves. Rhythmic and deep.
Ryan stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs. A massive, night-black horse emerged from the tree line. The beast was huge, but the man leading it by the reins made the horse look small.
Titus.
He was a mountain of a man, easily clearing seven feet, with shoulders broad enough to block a doorway. His wild black hair and thick beard framed a face weathered by countless winters. Slung casually over his massive shoulder was a large mountain goat, its blood still dripping into the dirt. As he walked through the gates, the other villagers immediately stepped aside, nodding in deep respect.
Ryan's legs moved before his brain gave the command.
"Father!"
He sprinted across the dirt square, dodging a stray dog, and threw his arms around the giant's waist.
Titus froze in surprise, then let out a booming laugh that seemed to vibrate in Ryan's own chest.
"There you are, my son!" Titus patted Ryan's back with a hand the size of a dinner plate. He gestured to the bloody carcass on his shoulder. "I wanted a deer, but this stubborn thing crossed my path. A goat is better than nothing, eh?"
Ryan stepped back, looking up. The scars on his father's face. The smell of pine needles and sweat. Alive. Whole.
"Come," Titus said, tossing Ryan the horse's reins. "Take her to the post. I'll carry the meat. Your mother will be thrilled."
They walked to the house side-by-side. For a brief, shining moment, Ryan felt an overwhelming, profound peace.
They reached the door. Ryan tied the horse. Titus reached for the iron handle.
"Titus!"
The voice from inside was sharp as a blade.
Titus—the strongest man in the village, a hunter who strangled wolves with his bare hands—froze in place like a terrified child.
Sera appeared in the doorway, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her green eyes blazing with wifely fury.
The fierce warrior instantly vanished, replaced by a sheepish husband. "My love... Sera, my heart... I just went out for a moment. Just to check the traps."
"We have salted meat for three months!" Sera pointed an accusing finger at his chest. "You went hunting for fun again, didn't you?"
Titus opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at the ground. "Old Marta's husband passed last moon. She has no one to hunt for her. I thought..."
Sera's stern face immediately softened. She sighed, her hands dropping from her hips. "Fine. Give the goat to Ryan to butcher, and have him take half to Marta. And you—" She pointed at Titus again. "—inside. Wash your hands. Eat."
Titus grinned, winking at Ryan as he dropped the heavy goat at his son's feet with a wet thud. "Take care of it, my boy."
Ryan looked down at the goat, his heart swelling. This was his family. This was his home. He had his life back.
Then, the bells rang.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The frantic, desperate sound ripped through the quiet evening.
Ryan dropped the butchering knife.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The warning bells.
From the watchtower at the gate, a man screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "Attack! Attack! An army is coming! Prepare the gates!"
Ryan's blood turned to ice.
No. Not again. Please, not again.
He looked up at his mother. The warmth had vanished from her face, replaced by ash-white fear.
He looked at his father. Titus had already drawn his heavy hunting axe, his jaw set, his eyes hard and ready for death.
This is the moment, Ryan realized, a sickening dread wrapping around his throat. This is the moment they die. This is the moment I watch them burn.
But he was not the same boy who had died in the cave.
In the ruined, starless temple, the old man watched.
Ryan's spirit-form lay on the cracked stone floor, twitching violently. Green light pulsed outward from his right eye, casting sickly shadows against the pillars.
"The Eye shows you what was," the old man murmured to the empty darkness, his voice like grinding stones. "What is. And what could be."
He leaned forward, resting his scarred hands on his knees, watching the boy's spirit moan in agony.
"First, it gives you exactly what you want. It gives you the life you lost. The people you loved. It lets you feel their warmth." The old man's eyes narrowed. "And then, it takes it all away. It forces you to watch them die, over and over, until you understand the true nature of the world."
He sat back against the throne of shadows.
"Four men before you have taken the Eye. Four men faced this test. And four men died right where you are lying, their minds broken, trapped forever in the moment of their greatest loss."
The temple held its breath.
"Will you be the fifth, boy?" the old man whispered. "Or will you wake?"