Etched In Flame

Chapter 2

Faster than breath, faster than fear, Emrys Szulc was hurled into the teeth of war.

The ramp of the shuttle crashed open with a metal scream, and the cold air of Grenushe IV slammed into him like a fist. He staggered out, boots crunching against cracked, frozen earth. The ground stretched flat in all directions—an endless, desolate tundra scabbed over with ash, blood, and shattered tech.

Above, the Lystuis Mist still drifted faintly in the sky, its haunting ribbons of green and rose curling across the upper atmosphere like the last dream of a dying god.

The contrast was unbearable.

A moment ago, they were staring into beauty. Now, Emrys stood in a nightmare.

The shriek of plasma fire whined through the air. Explosions thundered in the distance—sometimes near enough that his ribs ached from the percussion. Smoke and cold bit at his skin, even through the battlesuit hastily strapped over his frame. His breath fogged in his helmet. His fingers were numb around the unfamiliar grip of the Pyrokyne-issued blaster.

I'm not a soldier.
I shouldn't be here.

The blaster rattled in his hands with every step. It felt alive—angry, even—as though it knew he didn't belong.

A voice burst through the chaos:

"Took ya long enough!"

Emrys jerked toward the sound. Just ahead, wreathed in smoke and flame, a massive figure fought like the earth owed him blood.

Not a man—no, not quite. He was raw strength and fury. Hair tied tight, broad shoulders encased in matte armor, blade and fist moving like extensions of rage.

"Shut it, Bjarne!" Meike's voice cut through the din like a knife. She fired a precision shot from her sidearm, blasting the knee of an oncoming invader and dropping him into the ice.

Emrys caught a glimpse of her—smeared with grime, eyes alive with flame. A force of nature in motion. She didn't hesitate, didn't falter. She led.

"Where's Saolas? What about Saerys?" Bjarne asked between swings, his sword flashing crimson in the polluted sunlight.

"Saolas is cutting through to his brother." Meike didn't slow down, her tone sharpened to steel.

"Hmph."

"What?"

Bjarne didn't answer at first. He struck a soldier across the chest, armor sparking and splitting, then kicked him aside like debris. His silence said enough. He didn't like it. Didn't trust it.

Meike screamed something in her native Pyrokyn. A deep, guttural string of syllables that twisted in the air like fire through smoke. The words were untranslatable—emotional, ancestral, personal.

She threw her depleted blaster aside. It clattered uselessly across the ice.

Then she drew her sword.

The blade was curved and radiant, forged from Dymirion steel—a silver that shimmered in the bleak light, almost humming with power. Runes flickered across its surface as she raised it, glowing faintly with heat. Every Pyrokyn within sight straightened as if summoned by divine force.

"Princess—wait!" Kahsta shouted behind her.

But Meike had already gone.

She charged into the heart of the enemy line, striking like lightning. Her blade carved arcs of white heat through flesh and armor alike. She moved with the rhythm of someone who had trained not just to win, but to survive. Her presence ignited the morale of the weary Prafg troops nearby. Cries of "Strasta!" echoed behind her as the line surged forward.

Kahsta followed with a war cry of her own, blades flashing in her hands. The female commander danced beside her Princess, cutting down soldiers in synchronized arcs. Behind them, the Pyrokyne battalion poured into the fray like oil-fed fire.

And Emrys ran too.

He didn't know why. Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was pride. Maybe he just didn't want to be the reason the Princess failed. He stumbled after them, blaster clutched to his chest, boots sliding across patches of ice as he tried not to trip over frozen corpses or jagged rebar jutting from the wreckage of the outpost.

From his flank, Bjarne saw him.

And sneered.

"The hell is he doing here, Mu Strasta?"

"Explain later!" Meike and Sampo both shouted in unison.

But Bjarne wasn't satisfied.

"Mu Strasta was supposed to be the one to answer," he growled, driving his axe through the helmet of a charging enemy and ripping it back out with a grunt. Blood sprayed the snow in a dark mist. He looked at Emrys like he was a stain on the battlefield.

Still, the Voratian heir kept running.

He ducked behind the body of a fallen Pyrokyne, firing three desperate shots into the mass of enemies converging on the command ridge. One of them hit—barely. But it gave Sampo time to push forward. It mattered.

Emrys looked up and saw Meike—already thirty meters ahead, sword lifted, her cloak torn and singed, her braids lashing like banners of defiance. She raised her blade, pointed toward the ridge—

—and screamed.

"KOHDETTA! VAPAUTA TULI!"

The call went up the commline. A moment later, Pyrokyne heavy turrets, now retaken by her battalion, unleashed a searing barrage across the field. The invaders screamed as their formations collapsed under precision strikes.

The tide was turning.

But the battle was far from over.

And now the Voratian heir was no longer watching from the sidelines.

He was in it.

Whether he survived or not? That was still up to the fire.