DARK WAR REBORN; From Magicless Boy to World's Hidden Hope

Chapter 4: Echoes of Fire

Word traveled faster than any horse when carried by mage fire.

In the shadowed halls of Hidden Plague, where the Conclave gathered beneath their banners a white-robed messenger knelt before the council circle. His voice rang clear against the vaulted stone.

“A spark of healing flared in the midlands, my lords. In the village of Norwick. Our seekers rode there and found nothing, no mage, no child of power. The villagers swear no gift has touched that place in years. Yet the weave does not lie.”

The archmages murmured among themselves. Another false trail. Another dead end in their endless hunt for the prophesied child or for the vessel of Ramona herself.

Wade stood at the edge of the circle, cloaked in travel-stained gray, his face gaunt from weeks of scrying and riding. When he heard the name Norwick, the world narrowed to a single terrible point.

His son.

The gift had not skipped Wayne after all or perhaps it had manifested late, raw and uncontrolled. Either way, the spark had painted a target on the boy’s back. And on Alard’s house.

Wade stepped forward without waiting for leave. His voice cut through the chamber like a blade.

“I ride for Norwick. Now.”

The High Seat, an ancient woman named Elyra with eyes like winter frost, raised a hand.

“Your oaths bind you here, Wade of Highcrest. The northern signs grow stronger. We cannot spare you for personal matters.”

“This is more than personal,” he lied. “If a new mage has awakened in the midlands, we must secure them before the enemy does.”

Murmurs of assent rippled through the circle some were genuine, others merely polite. None challenged him further. They had greater quarrels to settle.

Wade was in the saddle before the moon cleared the battlements, riding south alone under a cloak of shadow-weaving that hid him from unfriendly eyes. He pushed his horse cruelly, changing mounts at waystations, sleeping only when exhaustion threatened to unseat him.

He reached Norwick on a morning thick with freezing fog.

The manor was a charred ruin. Blackened beams jutted like broken bones. The village square stank of old smoke and fear. Villagers crossed themselves when they saw his mage’s insignia and hurried away.

A grizzled reeve met him at the gates, hat twisting in nervous hands.

“Lord Wade… your brother. We buried what we could find. The black-robes came in the night. Asked questions none could answer. When Lord Alard stood firm…” The man’s voice cracked. “They burned him in his own hall. The children, young Wayne and Mistress Calley vanished. Some say they fled. Other say worse.”

Wade heard the words as though from underwater. He walked through the ashes of his brother’s home, boots crunching on scorched stone. In the great hall, a dark stain marked where Alard had died. Wade knelt and touched it, fingers coming away black with old blood.

They were gone.

He stayed three days in the ruins, searching for any sign, a scrap of cloth, a whisper of magic. Nothing. Grief settled on him like a lead cloak. He did not eat. He did not sleep. At night he sat by the cold hearth and stared into the dark, replaying every choice that had led to this moment.

I left them defenseless. I thought distance would protect them.

On the fourth morning, he rode north again, not to flee, but to beg.

He knelt before the Conclave in the great circle, head bowed.

“The spark in Norwick,” he said, voice raw. “It was my son. Wayne was staying with my brother when it flared. The enemy struck first. Alard is dead. My son and niece are missing. I beg the Conclave’s aid. Lend me seekers, scriers, whatever you can spare. Help me find my boy.”

Silence greeted his confession. Then Elyra spoke with a gentle but unyielding tune.

“You kept this from us, Wade. Blood ties cloud your judgment. You know the law.”

“I know the law,” he said bitterly. “And I know what Ramona does to those she captures. If my son lives, he may be the only lead we have to finding her.”

After a long debate, they granted him three seekers, junior mages skilled in tracing and permission to pursue. But their eyes were cold. Trust had broken and would only be mended slowly with time.

Wade took the aid and rode east, following faint rumors of two youths seen on back trails. Hope and dread warred in him with every mile.

Meanwhile, far from any road, Wayne and Calley moved through the ancient forest called the Thornwood, keeping to deer paths and streambeds as Alard had taught his daughter years ago.

They traveled light: a waterskin, a little hard bread, the swords from the manor armory, and Wayne’s crystal pendant still warm against his chest. They spoke little. Grief sat heavy between them like a third companion.

On the seventh night, they made camp in a hollow beneath an overturned oak. Frost glittered on the ground; their breath plumed white.

Calley knelt to build a fire, cursing softly as the damp tinder refused flint and steel.

“Useless,” she muttered, striking sparks that died before touching the kindling.

Wayne sat watch on a fallen log, sword across his knees, scanning the dark between the trees.

“Here,” Calley said suddenly with frustration sharp in her voice. “If magic woke once, let it wake again.”

She gathered a pile of twigs, passing it to Wayne to try using magic again. Wayne refused to collect the twigs telling her it was pointless, they had tried a dozen times since the healing but the words died in his throat.

A spark leapt from her palms, it was not golden this time, but bright orange, alive and hungry. Flame caught the tinder instantly, flaring up with a soft whoosh that lit the hollow in dancing light.

Calley jerked back, staring at her hands as though they belonged to a stranger.

“I… I didn’t mean…”

Wayne crossed the space in two strides and grabbed her wrists.

“Do it again.”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “I don’t know how.”

“Think of the fire. Want it.”

She swallowed, then focused on a single twig lying outside the flames. Her brow furrowed. A moment later, the twig burst into flame where it lay.

They stared at each other across the newborn fire.

“It wasn’t me,” Wayne whispered. “The healing. That was you.”

Calley’s laugh came out shaky. “Father always said the gift skipped him. He never thought to test me. Girls don’t train in spellcraft, do they?”

Wayne released her wrists and stepped back, mind racing.

“You have the gift, Calley. Raw. Untrained. That spark in the yard, the fire now, it’s been you all along.”

She looked at the flames she had summoned with nothing but will, wonder and terror mingling on her face.

“What do we do now?” she asked quietly.

Wayne glanced into the darkness beyond their small circle of light.

“We keep moving,” he said. “To Captain Garrick. To safety. And we keep this secret a little longer. The world already hunts one of us. Let’s not give them two.”

Calley nodded slowly, then fed the fire another stick, this time with her hands, careful and deliberate.