Fire for joy, p.33
Fire for Joy, page 33
The great mural wall was cracked down the centre. The spiral bowl was shattered. Smoke curled through the prayer hall like fingers searching for names.
Bodies lay scattered, Ash Rats, Blackjaws, faithful caught in the crossfire.
But none of them were her.
He stepped forward. Boots crushing shards of glass that once held the flame. His fire dimmed. His breath hitched.
And then—
Near the base of the inner flame, beneath a half-fallen tapestry, he saw her.
Marin.
Her robes were scorched. One side of her face streaked with soot. Her hand still clutched a child’s arm, small, trembling. The girl was alive, wide-eyed, tucked against Marin’s chest like a prayer.
Halfa knelt beside them, heart pounding like fists on a locked door. “Marin,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Marin, look at me. ”
Her eyes fluttered open, dim, but focused. “Halfa,” she murmured, a flicker of a smile. “You found me. ”
He touched her cheek, careful not to press too hard. “You’re hurt. ”
“Everyone is,” she whispered. “But… we held. The children—they… I couldn’t let them fall. ”
Her hand, weak but determined, pressed against his.
“You saved me long before tonight,” she said, barely above the crackle of the still-burning silks. “You were everything I wished I had. Everything I still want to have. ”
He tried to speak, but his voice caught.
“I saw your fire,” she went on, coughing. “It brought me so much joy to know you were out there, to know you were coming to me. ”
Behind them, a familiar shape stepped into the fractured light.
Bilbin. His apron torn, blood streaked down one arm, a kitchen knife still tucked in his belt like a defiant prayer. He knelt opposite Halfa and touched Marin’s shoulder gently.
“She pulled them from the side hall,” Bilbin said. “Carried two of them herself. Would’ve done more if I hadn’t tackled her behind the altar. ”
Halfa’s eyes burned. “We need to get her out. ”
“Already working on it,” came a voice from the hall.
Gorne. Limping, one arm in a sling, soot smudged into every line of his face. Lasse and Tallen flanked him, weapons still drawn. Their eyes widened when they saw Marin, but they didn’t panic.
“I’ll stay,” Gorne said, stepping forward. “I’m already half out of commission. I can hold this ground until the rest catch up. ”
Lasse nodded tightly. “We’ll form a perimeter. ”
And near the broken archway, half in shadow, half in flame—
Serelion.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Just met Halfa’s eyes and offered a single, solemn nod. A moment of old magic and unbroken faith.
Marin shifted. Her voice was weaker now. “They’ll try again, won’t they?”
Halfa leaned closer. “Let them. ”
And for the first time in hours, the fire in his chest felt like a shield.
The light inside the temple had dimmed. Not the fire, there was still plenty of that, but the weight of it. The smoke curled gentler now. The screams were further off.
Halfa had left Gorne and Bilbin with Marin, who was gravely injured but not in any immediate threat. Serelion had disappeared from near the arch.
Halfa stepped through the violet-painted door, the stone arch half-collapsed above him. His boots scraped glass and soot as he moved, and his breath came shallow, ragged. Each step was a small betrayal of how much the fire inside him had taken.
Outside, the square still burned.
But the tide had turned.
His explosion, pure, unshaped, born of terror and grief, had torn through the Blackjaw line like a hammer through a stained-glass window. The Ash Rats, surging behind it, had not wasted the moment. They drove the Blackjaws back, out of the temple courtyard, into the alleyways where resistance thinned, and courage frayed.
Bodies lay scattered. Blood soaked the cobbles. Fires burned all along the courtyard.
And at the edge of the temple steps stood Gronk.
His cloak was burned through at the shoulder. One gauntlet was missing. His eyes scanned every street like a tactician in the middle of a chessboard still in play. He didn’t turn when Halfa approached.
Halfa raised a hand and clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. It was a thank you that he couldn’t find the words to convey.
Gronk turned his head just enough to glance sideways. No smile. Just understanding.
And then he moved forward, fast. Bellowing orders, gathering his flank, driving toward the western breach where Blackjaw banners still flickered.
As Gronk left, Halfa looked for Lasse and Tallen, and went to go and help Gronk finish this.
But as he did, his gaze caught something a little bit away from the battle.
The smoke there was thicker. As he watched, the smoke parted, and she walked through.
Valka.
She didn’t march like a general. She didn’t charge like a soldier.
She just walked towards Halfa.
Smoke curled around her heels. Her coat was torn, streaked with soot. It trailed like a memory that refused to die. Her hair was tied back, her posture relaxed, but her eyes…
Her eyes were sharpened glass.
She stepped over the bodies like they weren’t there. Like they were already forgotten. Like grief was a language she had never needed to learn.
Halfa turned toward her. His limbs were heavy. His breath burned.
But he stood.
Valka tilted her head at him.
“Well,” she said, softly. “Here we are. ”
The temple still burned behind him.
And in that moment, before anything else happened, Halfa knew:
It wasn’t over yet.
The battle surged beyond them, steel clashed in alleys, cries rang out like broken hymns, but the square in front of the temple had gone still.
Halfa stood between Valka and the scorched temple steps, shoulders squared, boots firm in ash. To his left, Tallen, already bloodied but unshaken. To his right, Lasse, face grim, mace tight in one hand.
Gronk had vanished into the thicket of war again, a distant shape of rage and muscle driving back the Blackjaw line. His absence had left Halfa at the point of the blade.
Valka didn’t flinch.
She stood five strides away, framed by broken columns and smoke-smeared sky, her hands bare, her coat hanging in torn ribbons. Her eyes burned brighter than her blades ever had.
“I was hoping it would be just us,” she said. “No armour. No orders. Just truth. ”
Halfa didn’t reply.
He felt the fire inside him. It was coiled, wary. It knew fear now. It knew her.
Valka smiled like she could taste it.
“You think the fire inside you makes you powerful, Halfa,” she said, taking one slow step forward. “But you forget who showed you what it could do. ”
She opened her hand.
The flame moved.
Not from Halfa, but from everywhere else.
Lanterns sputtered out. Torches extinguished. Braziers across the square shuddered and died. A wave of darkness collapsed around them as Valka drew all the flame forward, coiling it in front of her, a spinning orb of light, heat and hunger.
It floated above like a sun cut loose.
“I don’t only control your fire, Halfa,” she yelled. “I command all fire that forgets its purpose. ”
Halfa’s dread landed like a weight in his gut. The heat of her power brushed his face.
Tallen stepped forward. “She’s going to—”
Valka moved before the sentence finished.
She turned toward the temple, arm outstretched, and hurled the fireball.
It arced like a comet.
Straight toward the crumbling arch of the temple of Thessira.
“No—” Halfa’s cry ripped from his throat.
But it was already flying.
Already burning.
Already coming.
The fireball screamed across the square, a streak of molten fury drawn from every flame Valka could reach. It lit the air like a second sun, spinning, roaring and wild.
Halfa’s fire surged by instinct, not channelled, not controlled, just launched. A wall of golden heat burst from his chest, colliding with the oncoming inferno midair.
The two forces twisted—flame battering flame. But Valka’s magic held stronger. Her fire bent. Curved. Absorbed.
It continued straight toward the temple.
“No!” Halfa shouted, the sound torn from his chest like a wound.
And then—
Above the violet-painted door, framed by curling smoke and broken banners, standing atop the cracked arch, was Serelion.
They did not shout. They did not flinch.
Their arms rose, palms open, as if welcoming the fire.
And the fire came.
The ball of blazing fury curved downward, then halted, inches from Serelion’s hands, as if caught by invisible threads.
Wind screamed through the square. Debris lifted. The air itself held its breath.
Serelion’s eyes glowed, not with power, but with peace.
They whispered something no one could hear. They locked eyes with Halfa, eyes full of peace and joy. A smile on their lips.
Then, the fire folded in.
Collapsed.
Drawn into Serelion’s chest.
A burst of light exploded outward. It wasn’t destructive. It was radiant. The flame became gold. Heat became a song.
And when the flash cleared—
Only ash remained.
A perfect spiral of it, slowly drifting to the temple steps.
Tallen took a step toward Halfa, then stopped. Lasse’s hand dropped to his side. The firelight flickered across their faces, raw, quiet and changed.
Halfa fell to his knees.
No words. No scream.
Deafening silence.
Behind him, even the Blackjaws paused. Even Valka stopped smiling.
The fire had been claimed.
And its price had been paid.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, on his knees, surrounded by the stillness that followed the sacrifice. Wind scattered the ash. The fire in his chest didn’t burn. It mourned.
Serelion was gone. But what they had done… it lingered. A line drawn between fury and faith.
Halfa could barely see; his vision was blurred by smoke, sweat, and the raw sting of grief. His lungs burned. His arms trembled. The hollow left by Serelion’s absence ached louder than the flame still coiling through his bones. But through the haze, he caught movement. Gronk. Shoulders squared. Jaw set like stone. The brute moved toward Valka without fanfare, without war cries. Just intent. And as he stepped between the embers, Halfa realised something terrifying: Gronk wasn’t going to stop her. He was going to end her.
Valka, half-burnt, one sleeve torn, her left eye swollen shut. She stood in the centre of the courtyard, blades reversed in her hands, dripping with blood that wasn’t hers. Around her, Ash Rats and even some of Brannig’s Watch, lay still.
Gronk stood across from her. Breathing hard. One arm limp. His face was a mask of smoke and blood.
Valka saw Halfa over Gronk’s shoulder. She grinned. “Just in time. He should see this. ”
“You’re finished,” Gronk said.
She laughed. It was hoarse, cracked, but still full of flame. “Am I? You think if you kill me, it ends? You’re a fool. You’ll need me after this. My methods. My people. ”
“They’re not yours anymore,” Gronk said.
Valka lunged.
She moved like a dying star, bright, erratic, full of gravity. Gronk caught her blade with his forearm, the metal biting through old scars. He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t hesitate.
They crashed together in the heart of the courtyard. One beast.
She was faster than she had any right to be.
Gronk’s first blow landed, barely. She twisted with it, used the impact to roll over his shoulder, kicked off his spine mid-fall, and landed crouched. Her blade nicked his calf as she passed. Not deep. But precise.
Gronk staggered. She was on him again.
A knife at his throat was deflected. A second to his ribs, dodged. Her movements were precise. Not wild, but meant to feel wild. To unnerve. She danced like a storm and struck like a surgeon.
He caught her arm and drove a knee into her side. She buckled, but didn’t break.
“You think this is control?” she spat, blade flashing across his collar.
“No,” Gronk growled. “This is the end. ”
She bled. So did he. They circled, panting. Gronk limping, Valka hunched. Her smirk cracked, but it didn’t fade.
Then she faked a stumble.
Gronk stepped in, and she spun low, cutting into his thigh with the last of her strength. He dropped. One knee down. She raised both knives overhead, screaming—
And he drove upward like a piston, head-butting her clean across the mouth.
She reeled. Gronk surged. Grabbed her wrist. Broke it.
She screamed. Stabbed with the other hand.
He caught it. Slammed her into the pillar.
The blades dropped.
She fell.
She rose again.
He hit her harder.
This time, she stayed down.
Valka collapsed against the edge of the pillar, spitting blood onto the cracked stone. She looked up at Gronk. One eye still blazing.
“I hope you choke on this throne,” she said.
He said nothing.
“You’ll sit where I sat. You’ll look out across this city. And you’ll see me. In every desperate face. In every corner that you can’t control. You’ll become me. ”
Gronk didn’t respond.
He just reached down, grabbed her by the collar, and dragged her across the stones, past the wounded, past Halfa, past what was left of the old temple walls.
Halfa watched her limp blade trail through the dust like a fallen torch.
And Valka?
She smiled all the way to the square.
No one spoke. No one moved. The fight was over, but the air still crackled with the echo of her presence. Halfa looked at the blood she left behind and wondered if it was hers or the city’s. Gronk stood tall, but even he didn’t raise his voice. As the smoke thinned, Halfa realised something he hadn’t dared name before: her body might fall, but her words had already planted roots. In fear. In anger. In the need to control. She’d lost, but she’d left a map for anyone willing to follow. And Gronk… he held the compass now.
Halfa looked at Valka as she was dragged away.
He could’ve chased her. Could’ve thrown fists, curses, fury. The rage burned, even without flame. No one would’ve stopped him. Some might’ve cheered.
But Halfa stood still.
His fire was gone, all expelled from him as he had tried to stop Valka’s fireball. He could feel cold inside his chest. But the heat behind his ribs wasn’t all that made him dangerous.
And it wasn’t all that made him matter.
He looked toward the temple. Toward the spiral. Toward Marin’s laughter on some forgotten morning, and the children’s paper crowns, and the bread still warm in his chest. He looked up at the scorched arch where Serelion had stood for his last stand.
“Not like this,” he said.
He knelt beside a fallen Ash Rat and helped him sit upright. Tallen and Lasse joined him.
No fire. No vengeance. Just hands. Just healing.
Just joy, stubborn and alive, refusing to be silenced.
At the centre of the square, under a makeshift canopy of torn silks and tarpaulin, Gronk stood before the last of the Blackjaw leadership.
They knelt.
Some from wounds. Others from fear. A few from choice.
Their sigils had been slashed through. The reign of the Blackjaws in Grayspire was done.
But they weren’t dead.
Not all of them.
Rix stood near the steps, one arm hanging unnaturally, face bloodied but alert. She didn’t cheer. She watched.
Halfa pushed forward through the ring of Ash Rats and loyal Watchmen. His boots crunched glass. His heart burned. Tallen and Lasse, ever loyal, flanked him even now.
Gronk saw him. Nodded once.
Then turned back to the kneeling gang lords.
A beaten and bloodied Valka was on her knees, staring up at Gronk with a smirk, eyes firing with malice.
Gronk looked down at her, contemplating. His jaw clenched with resolve.
Valka coughed, blood flecking her lips. She stayed on her knees, her hands at her sides, blades forgotten in the dust.
The Ash Rats stood frozen. Even the wind seemed to hush.
She looked up at Gronk and Halfa in turn, half-laughing through the ruin of her breath.
“You think they’ll cheer you?” she rasped, voice ragged. “You think they’ll hang flags for the next butcher who gets a seat at the table?”
Gronk said nothing.
“You’re just me in a new uniform,” she continued. “King and knight. Pretending this isn’t just another slaughterhouse with better drapes. ”
She leaned forward, hand gripping a cracked stone for balance.
“This city doesn’t want saving. It wants control. And you—” she looked at Gronk, “you gave it control with a friendlier name. ”
Her gaze shifted to Halfa.
“You—fireboy. Temple boy. You still dreaming of joy in a world made of ash?”
She grinned wider, cracked teeth and red spit.
“Tell your goddess: joy doesn’t last. Fire does. ”
Then, gazing skyward, her voice softened.
“You’ll remember me when the streets run red again. And they will. ”
She raised her chin—proud, defiant, unbroken.
“Thrones don’t rot from pressure. They rot from comfort. ”
She closed her eyes.
“I built mine from ash. At least it never lied. ”
Gronk raised his weapon and brought it down. Hard. Once. Twice.
There was a pause. No cheering, no shouting.
For a heartbeat, Gronk hesitated. Not before the blow, but after. A breath. A flicker. Then it was gone. The new throne waited.
