Fiorde's laugh was a soft, melodic ha‑ha‑ha, the kind that didn't quite fit their gloom‑drenched surroundings. He reached into the many inner folds of his ragged coat and produced small paper packets Jacob had never thought to check for.
"That was a ghastly nap," Fiorde said, stretching like a cat. "What did I miss? Wait—don't answer. I need mint tea and silence. …Have you heated any stones?"
Jacob frowned. "Why would I heat up stones?"
Fiorde's smile was sunrise bright. "You're traveling with the Righteous Slayer. Of course you should heat stones."
"…Never heard of you."
The smile cracked, as if Fiorde's face were stone coming back to life. He let the packets fall, glared at Jacob, and snapped his right hand forward in a claw, aiming directly at Jacob's chest.
Jacob flinched, arms up, bracing for lightning.
Nothing.
Fiorde collapsed into hysterics, sparks skittering from his sleeves and scorching tiny black crescents in the grass. "Hahaha! You're as jumpy as that fake god those monkeys worshiped."
Jacob's cheeks warmed, but under this endless night Fiorde never noticed. "Cough… cough… excuse a man for trying not to be fricasseed."
Fiorde cocked an eyebrow. "Man? …pfft! Hahaha!"
"If you can be a 'righteous slayer,' I can be a man. Common sense."
Three hours later, Jacob hadn't said another word, answering Fiorde only when the talk circled back to Nero or cursed lore. They were still a week's march from the mountain.
'I can't let him get too close,' Jacob told himself. 'If he bails, I can't afford to lean on him.'
"Fine," Fiorde said eventually, folding his arms. "I'll trade. You listen, I lecture. Nero 101. Deal?"
Jacob offered a sigh meant to look reluctant. Fiorde's grin said he wasn't fooled.
"You keep proving me right, kid—you're just acting tough. Anyway, what stage are you?"
"Stage?"
"No, Jasmine. Yes, stage." Fiorde's smile thinned. "Unlock Nero and you're a Spark. Stack up feats, climb the ladder: Kindler, Notary, Exemplary, Saint… Apostle. A Saint could flatten a continent."
Jacob's throat dried. "And an Apostle?"
Fiorde's shoulders twitched in a shiver. "Weakest could crack a planet. Strongest? The sun."
Jacob stopped, legs wooden. He slumped against a tree, mind numb at the scale.
Fiorde huffed. "Don't get ahead of yourself. You don't even know the stages—you're probably not a Spark yet."
Jacob wiped sweat from his brow, forced a grin. "That's where you come in. Teach me everything you know—or I leave you here."
Fiorde raised an eyebrow. "Oh no, the guy who needs me most is threatening abandonment."
Jacob hid a snort. Both of them knew ditching Fiorde would be suicide.
Fiorde sipped from a dented tin mug. Steam drifted—though Jacob couldn't smell tea, couldn't even see liquid. 'Where'd he get that?' he wondered.
"Want some?" Fiorde angled the cup his way.
Jacob peered inside. Empty.
"Where's the tea?"
"Use your imagination."
"Bullshit."
"It's training."
"Yes, Mr. Righteous Slayer." Jacob sank back, the tree creaking behind him. For half an hour they shared invisible tea in utter silence.
Then Fiorde burst out laughing. "You really are as slow as that tree god. You can't imagine tea if you haven't unlocked Nero."
Jacob's temper slipped; a vein pulsed at his neck. 'This guy is getting under my skin.' He lobbed the cup back. Fiorde fielded it one‑handed, tucked it into some impossible pocket.
'And why am I still humoring him?' Jacob thought. But training was training—and Adira was waiting somewhere beyond this nightmare.
"Mr. Righteous Slayer," he said at last, "how do I unlock Nero?"
Fiorde exhaled, cooling his imaginary brew. "Nero isn't taught. It's survived. Like tea steeped too long—bitter, but strong."
Before Jacob could press, a red‑eyed bat unfolded from the branch just above Fiorde's head. Jacob's warning died in his throat; Fiorde flicked a fingertip. A pinpoint spark arced, the bat spasmed, then dropped smoking onto the grass.
Fiorde's eyes narrowed. "We got comfortable. They're moving this way—though not for us, I think."
Jacob swallowed. 'He's right. What was I thinking, dozing off here?'
"Let's go." He shouldered Fiorde, careful of the man's limp legs.
Fiorde lifted a hand, gesturing Jacob still. He drained the last of his imaginary tea—Jacob could hear nothing, yet steam still wisped. The mug vanished into his coat. Jacob decided not to wonder.
As they moved on, the forest's background noise sharpened—snaps of branches, low hisses, distant shrieks. Black leaves rustled without wind, as though things brushed past that Jacob couldn't see.
The trees began to thin, not into a proper clearing, but something older and emptier than that. It was like a wound in the Black Forest's body—dozens of broken trunks, splinters scattered like bones. Mist drifted low along the ground, clinging to roots like greedy fingers. The light, though still starless and dim, had an unnatural glow to it—a dull red pulse that throbbed in time with no heartbeat they could name.
Jacob slowed, instincts screaming. Something was ahead. Something wrong.
Through a screen of brambles, they finally saw it.
A loose congregation of cursed—at least a dozen—meandered in a shallow depression in the earth. Jacob ducked down behind a rock, Fiorde still draped across his back like a sack of eccentricity and lightning. Neither of them said a word.
It was an assembly of nightmares.
One cursed creature stood tall like a stag, but it shimmered with faceted crystal skin, every movement scraping glass against itself. Another had too many legs—maybe a centipede, but its segments were covered in sheets of dripping fungal veils that peeled and pulsed like lungs. A creature with no eyes—and too many mouths—snapped at anything that moved, chewing the air like it could taste dimensions.
The group bickered over a carcass. Jacob couldn't tell what it had once been—its body was torn nearly in half, ribs poking out like skeletal fingers clutching at nothing. And yet, it still twitched. Not spasms. Not death throes. Something deeper.
The cursed fought like wild dogs, pushing and slashing—not for dominance, but from an erratic madness. Two skittered over each other, slipped in black blood, and hissed with high-pitched insect screeches that made Jacob's ears ring.
'Chaos everywhere,' Jacob thought, muscles locked tight. But for all its savagery, it didn't feel like the kind of chaos designed to destroy them—if they stayed smart.
He crouched lower, watching the mist swirl between the cursed's feet, absorbing the sound, distorting it. Even their growls felt muffled here, like the air itself was trying to hold its breath.
Fiorde, limp on his back, whispered like wind through grass. "We're not the main act tonight. Lucky us."
Jacob nodded silently, step by careful step starting to move along the tree line, giving the cursed wide berth. His boots crunched faintly on something brittle—maybe an old curse's shell. He paused, heart hammering.
Nothing noticed.
They kept going. The fog thickened near the ground. The air tasted metallic now, like pennies under the tongue. And then—Jacob stopped dead.
A new shape had emerged just beyond the others. Bigger. Slower.
It stepped through the ruined edge of the treeline, hoofs as thick as anvils. A boar, or something once shaped like one. But larger than a horse, its shoulders plated in bony ridges, its snout a fortress of grown-over scars. Its eyes glowed faintly red, not bright like the others, but molten—barely restrained heat.
Jacob dared not breathe.
The boar sniffed the air with a wet snort, head swinging in a wide arc. Mucus dripped from its tusks. It took one slow, deliberate step in their direction.
Then another.
Its nostrils flared.
Jacob's lungs clenched.
Fiorde, still slack on his back, slid one hand into his coat with practiced ease. Jacob could feel the motion just over his shoulder, could almost feel the smirk without even turning to look.
From his pocket, Fiorde produced a smooth stone—nothing special. Size of a plum. Dull gray, warmed from being close to his skin.
He rolled his wrist once.
Then flicked.
The stone arced silently through the air and clacked against a tree behind the boar.
A beat passed. The cursed creature froze.
Then it roared—not a squeal, not a snort, but something guttural and ugly, and it charged in the opposite direction, knocking two smaller cursed creatures clean off their legs. They hissed in protest, but none dared follow.
Silence settled back like a net.
Jacob didn't wait. He broke into a run again, one careful footstep after the next, every movement controlled, deliberate, barely stirring the ground. Fiorde bounced gently on his back.
For a few long moments, nothing followed.
Only when the black trees swallowed the pulsing clearing behind them did Jacob allow himself to breathe again.
Fiorde let out a small yawn like he'd been bored the entire time. "See?" he murmured. "Imagination and aim."
Jacob grunted. "You going to tell me how you fit a stone that size in a flat coat pocket?"
Fiorde made a small 'tsk' sound. "Only the father knows."
Jacob shook his head, jogging slower now as the sounds of the cursed faded behind them.
Everything still hurt. But they were alive.
Jacob dumped Fiorde onto the cold ground of the Black Forest—again. No grace. No care.
Fiorde grunted as he hit the dirt. "You know," he muttered, brushing a dead leaf off his cheek, "I'm starting to think you enjoy that."
Jacob froze, suddenly alert. He hadn't meant to be so rough. Again. "How far do you think we are from the mountain?" he asked, quick and flat, hoping the change of subject would do the work.
Fiorde rolled onto his back and squinted at nothing. "Six days," he said. "Maybe seven. But with you slowing me down? A year. Two. Ten. Ah, but what are numbers—just little lies we use to measure disappointment."
Jacob stood there knowing whatever Fiorde said was simply the father testing him. He barely had time to brace before something slammed into his leg.
A flash of silver teeth—a cursed wolf.
It tore through the muscle just above Jacob's knee, dragging him down into the dirt. Hot, red pain bloomed fast, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Blood spattered the grass. He gasped, tried to crawl back.
Fiorde didn't move.
He sat there like this was all part of the story, eyes gleaming faintly behind strands of messy hair. Watching. Measuring.
The cursed wolf's eyes gleamed too, except there was no logic behind them—just hunger twisted by cruelty. It leapt again, ripping across Jacob's ribs, shredding his shirt, laughing in low, wet growls that didn't sound quite like any animal Jacob had ever heard.
It was playing with him. Darting in. Slashing. Retreating. Tasting his pain.
Fiorde still didn't move.
The cursed crept around Jacob like a vulture around carrion, baring fangs, fur bristling, then lunged one final time—straight for the heart.
And that's when Fiorde's eyes finally changed. Calm drained away. His fingers twitched.
The cursed wolf launched forward—
—but a blue flash struck it mid-air. A sound like thunder cracked through the trees. The cursed let out a high, terrible scream as it caught fire from the inside, the flames too thorough, too clean for anything natural. It hit the ground already ash.
Jacob blinked, stunned, panting.
And then the pain arrived.
It flooded him—his arms, his spine, his veins. His body was healing, fast, skin knitting together, blood drying to dust, but the ache in his hands screamed louder than the wolf ever had.
Fiorde gave a low whistle. "Now that's the good stuff," he said, grinning like a proud lunatic. "First flare's always rough. Like drinking burnt oolong. But hey, at least you get the whole rapid-healing bonus."
Jacob struggled upright, breathing hard. "I… I can't move properly. We need shelter. Somewhere I can actually rest."
Fiorde sighed dramatically. "Okay, princess. But you are slowing me down. Just saying."
They found a cave tucked beneath a slope of moss-choked stone. The mouth was just wide enough for one person. Inside, it was dry, silent, oddly warm. Jacob laid down on a flat patch of stone and tried to sleep.
But his body was too raw.
His mind too loud.
He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows dance.
Fiorde sat nearby, cross-legged, mumbling to himself. Or maybe not to himself at all.
His voice was quiet and strange. A lullaby, maybe. Or nonsense.
"Ohhh, the teacups grow on trees tonight,
With sugar moons and minty light—
Shhh, don't wake the sleepy leaves,
They're steeping dreams beneath their sleeves.
I brewed the stars in chamomile,
So sip, my sprout, and snore with grace—
In a tea garden's warm, weird, wiggly place."
Jacob didn't know when his eyes finally closed.
But when they did, he dreamed of stars… floating in a steaming cup.