"And now you're free!"
The words echoed somewhere above Hillel, too distant to focus on. Freedom? He slumped on the damp grass, his body burning with agony, blood still leaking from his shoulder despite the crude bandage. His vision swirled, fading at the edges.
A hand slapped lightly against his cheek. The voice returned, closer now, edged with impatience. "Hey! Hey, kid! Don't check out on me now, you hear? Oi!"
The effort to keep his eyes open, to focus on the blurry figure leaning over him, proved too much. Pain, blood loss, and bone-deep exhaustion finally claimed him. The vibrant sunrise dissolved as Hillel plunged back into darkness.
----
...Warmth. Sunlight streamed through a window, illuminating dust motes in an ornate kitchen that seemed too extravagant for him.
Someone like me? I don't even know who I am.
The smell of frying meat and something sweet filled his senses. He sat at a wooden table, a plate piled high before him. Across sat a woman. He knew, with an unexplainable certainty, she was his mother. He felt her familiar presence like a well-worn blanket. Yet her face remained frustratingly indistinct, a blur of soft lines and gentle light, like something underwater.
His fork hovered over the food.
"Still worried, dear?" Her voice was kind, achingly familiar, though the words felt strange. "You shouldn't hesitate so. You know how he gets..."
He knew who she meant. The thought sent a tremor through the warmth. Father.
But why? Why do I feel this way?
"It's alright," she continued, her blurred hand reaching across the table. "Just eat. We don't want to anger your father, do we?"
As if summoned, the front door creaked open. A shadow fell across the sunlit room. A man stepped inside. Hillel couldn't see his face either, just a tall, imposing silhouette that seemed to shake the reality around him.
Instantly, the warmth vanished. A queasy, familiar dread coiled in Hillel's stomach. The floor beneath his feet trembled. Angry shouts of different voices, muffled and distorted, echoed from everywhere, growing louder and pressing inward. The pleasant scene flickered, sunlight dimming, the food smell replaced by something metallic and foul...
----
He felt a searing heat pressed against his chest.
Hillel screamed, eyes flying open, tearing himself from the dissolving dream. He instinctively scrambled backward, pain exploding through his shoulder and ribs, his back hitting rough canvas.
He blinked, taking in his surroundings with wide, panicked eyes. He was lying on a thick sleeping mat placed just outside a simple, sturdy canvas tent pitched in a small clearing. A few yards away, a campfire crackled merrily, sending sparks towards the early morning sky, now painted in softer blues and golds. The air smelled sharply of pine needles from the dense forest surrounding the clearing on three sides.
Leaning directly over him only moments before, now jerked back in surprise, was a young man—dark-skinned, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with short hair. His eyes widened in shock at Hillel's scream. The source of the searing heat, the man's hand which had been pressed against the raw wound on Hillel's chest, now hovered between them, palm still glowing with faint, flickering orange flames.
"Whoa! Hey! Easy!" the young man stammered, raising both hands, the faint flames dying like embers. "Didn't mean to scare you! Just trying to... uh... stop the bleeding?"
Hillel pushed himself fully upright against the tent wall, ignoring the renewed agony. He wanted to summon the phantom hand badly, but couldn't muster the energy.
"Stop the bleeding?" he choked out, voice raw, clutching his chest where phantom heat still seemed to burn. "By setting me on fire? What kind of lunatic are you?!"
The dark-skinned man ran a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. "Look, hear me out. It's... complicated. I was just trying to help!"
"Help? You call that help?" Hillel shot back, gesturing wildly with his good arm. "I woke up with your burning hand on me! I have no idea who you are or why you think roasting people alive counts as first aid!"
"Roasting—? I wasn't roasting you!" the young man protested, throwing his hands up. "I was doing what the boss told me to do!"
Hillel froze. "The boss?" His mind flashed back—the red haired man, the flight up the stairs, the escape. "Who's the boss?"
The young man sighed, rubbing his neck. "Uh, you know... Ezra? Carmine hair, kinda pink eyes, talks like he owns the place 'cause he usually does? Wears that ridiculous coat even in the heat?"
The description hit Hillel with certainty. The intruder. "That maniac?" Hillel spat, anger overriding fear. "He saves me just to have his lackey torture me? And healing with flames? That makes no sense!"
The young man exhaled slowly. "First off, it does make sense. It's my spark, alright? I create fire that heals injuries when I focus it right. Speeds up the whole process." He paused, adding defensively, "But it hurts. Everyone says it feels like getting burned. I don't feel it though, because I'm technically made of fire."
Hillel stared, incredulous. "You expect me to believe—"
"Just look at your shoulder!" the young man interrupted, pointing. "The one with that stab wound. I fixed it while you were out."
Hesitantly, Hillel reached over. The crude bandage the old man had applied was gone. His fingers traced where the deep wound had been. Smooth skin. Pink, slightly tender, the faintest hint of a forming scar, but undeniably whole. He twisted to see it. Lo and behold, it was healed. His disbelief warred with the evidence.
He looked back at the young man, speechless. Finally, he managed, "Who are you?"
The young man gave a slight, relieved smile, extending a hand cautiously. "Name's Caladeus. Sorry about the... fiery wake-up call."
----
Caladeus was telling the truth. Hillel discovered this through agonizing experience.
The flames were unbearable. Each time Caladeus pressed his palm to Hillel's wounds, screams tore from his throat. Worse was discovering the morbid source of Caladeus's healing fire.
Blood. His own blood. Caladeus had to stab his palm, letting flaming droplets seep from the wound. He would press these flames against Hillel's injuries, the foreign fire seeping into exposed flesh and igniting a healing storm of pain.
When Hillel mentioned his wounded ribcage, he instantly regretted it. Caladeus drove a blade into the deep wounds, pouring his blood into them. Fire engulfed Hillel's inner torso, delivering a fresh dose of agony unlike anything he'd experienced. His screams echoed as Caladeus burned his wounds away, face twisted with concern but hands steady. The treatment was necessary—Hillel was in terrible shape.
Minutes of hellfire later, Hillel was physically restored. The pain faded, leaving a functional body without the blemishes from his underground imprisonment. Yet the sensation of being burned alive remained, etched into his memory with terrible clarity.
Hillel slumped against the tent wall, gasping, feeling strength slowly returning to his newly-mended body.
That was the worst thing I've ever experienced...
Caladeus wiped sweat and blood from his brow, looking drained but satisfied. "See? Told you. Hurts like hell. To be honest, your reaction to the healing wasn't as bad as somebody I know."
Before Hillel could respond, the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves sounded from the forest edge. Caladeus looked up, his expression becoming neutral.
Three figures emerged into the clearing. Leading them was a woman with striking silver hair pulled back severely from her face, revealing toned features and piercing amethyst eyes. Intricate tattoos resembling mythical beasts coiled around her right forearm, disappearing beneath her tunic sleeve. Flanking her were two young men. One was blond, a teenager by the look of him, wearing a simple button-up shirt and dirty brown pants, his face almost entirely hidden beneath the brim of a floppy bucket hat—only the tip of his nose and his wide smile visible. The other was slender, maybe early twenties, with honey-toned skin, a prominent hooked nose, intense black eyes, and messy black hair falling across his forehead. Strapped across his back, drawing Hillel's immediate attention, was a massive, brutal-looking cleaver.
They stopped near the crackling campfire, their collective gaze landing on Hillel, then shifting to Caladeus. The silver-haired woman spoke first, her voice calm and cool. "He's awake, then?"
Caladeus nodded. "Just finished. He's... noisy."
The woman's amethyst eyes settled back on Hillel, assessing him with an unreadable intensity that made him instinctively want to shrink back against the tent.
He gulped.
Who are these guys?