Ember stumbled back, his mind racing. He could feel the heat of the followers’ gazes on his back. He took another step as he tried to formulate even a hint of a plan. He glanced around for an exit, but the only one was between him and a hundred cult members.

  He turned back to Jeremiah, who was now only four or five steps away. “Can’t I just give you back the sword?” He asked.

  The man chuckled. “Why would we allow a fake messiah to exist within our midst? No, you cannot live. After all, the sword has claimed you, and until you are gone, our holy relic cannot claim a more worthy wielder.”

  Frustration flared through Ember. “Just take the stupid fucking sword back. It’s just a hunk of iron anyway.”

  Immediately, he recoiled from his words. I should not have said that. Why would I say that? He chided himself mentally.

  The air grew chilly, and Jeremiah’s form went rigid. “You dare?” He whispered. His voice was quiet, but the emotion was obvious. “You dare insult our holy relic? The object of our worship?” He chuckled darkly. “No. You are not even worthy of fertilizing our gardens. Your death will not be swift. You will beg. You will scream. Until you have repented for your words.”

  Ember swallowed hard. Behind him, he heard the rustling of robes.

  “Fellowship,” Jeremiah said loudly. “This man—this heretic—has dared to offend our scripture. Our holy relic. He will not leave these halls alive.”

  Ember was in full panic mode now, sweat pouring down his face. He glanced back at the crowd, hoping to find pity, or maybe someone who would speak up. No one did. His mind reeled as he tried to form a coherent thought. Something, anything to stall. Ember turned back, heart in his throat. “Please,” he said. “I’m a stranger here. I don’t understand anything. Just take the sword and let me go.”

  Jeremiah chuckled darkly again. “And what of those people in the dungeon? They were strangers as well. But they were not worthy of the sword. And you are not worthy of our praise. What makes you believe you’re any better than them?”

  Ember stumbled slightly, nausea hitting him. I’m going to die. They’re going to kill me. I can’t die. I won’t.

  That thought flipped something inside him. He could feel the sword respond. A sort of hum throughout his entire body.

  Coldness enveloped Ember’s arm, a sensation like plunging into icy water. It flowed from the sword into his arm, all the way to the center of his chest, where it pooled, like when you drink cold water too fast. Ember gasped and clutched his chest as he staggered. Everything from his veins to his very bones felt cold. The world dulled ever so slightly.

  “What is this?” he asked, his voice strained.

  Warmth followed—like a warm-bodied animal resting on his chest. It spread outward across his body. It felt like warm water flowing outward from his chest. The world went from dull to extremely loud and vivid. He could hear the breathing of everyone in the room and smell the oil used to light the lanterns. Then pain. Searing pain. Everywhere.

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  A scream tore from his throat. The searing pain flared and traveled from his body, into his chest, and down his arm to the sword. What was left behind shook with effort and a lack of feeling. The pain flowed into the sword, leaving him mentally and physically drained. The weapon flashed gold for half a second.

  During it, Ember had heard Jeremiah scream, “Stop him! He’s overflowing!” But now, everyone stood still.

  “What have you done?” Jeremiah said quietly. Above, the sky lit up. All eyes turned upwards as a massive fireball descended from the heavens.

  And then the world exploded.

  The ceiling blew apart as a giant ball of fire slammed through it and into the crowd behind Ember. The cathedral crumbled, chunks of the ceiling collapsed and parts of the walls shattered outward. The blast was strong enough to hurl Jeremiah into the wall behind him. Screams and cries rang out.

  Ember fell to his knees in the rubble, completely untouched.

  Cool air poured in through the destroyed ceiling and shattered walls. The night sky twinkled above. Smoke rose from the ruined cathedral. Only a few people seemed to be untouched by the unknown explosion. Behind Ember, a crater the size of a swimming pool dented the floor.

  He looked around in horror. “What have I done? Did I do this?” His eyes found children crushed under rubble, men and women impaled by fallen debris. “I’ve killed these people,” he muttered.

  The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. The cries of children assailed his ears. People cried, and many screamed. It was a sound so haunting that Ember was sure he would never forget it.

  Exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave. It felt like he’d been biking for thirty-five hours nonstop, uphill. It took everything just to stay conscious. His body bent under the pure lack of energy, and he could feel nothing. Even the thirst he knew he should be aware of was gone, replaced with an alarming lack of feeling in his entire body. A cough made him look up.

  As he raised his head, the pure resentment radiating from Jeremiah forced him to look his way. Most of the mask was still intact, but his right eye was exposed—and in it was a depth of rage Ember hadn’t thought possible.

  “You will repent for this, heathen,” Jeremiah snarled, his eye smoldering. He tried to stand, then slammed back against the wall when his body failed him. “I will find you, no matter how far you hide. No matter where you hide, or how far you run. I will bring you down. Pray that your death is swift. For I will show you the same mercy you have shown my people.”

  The fear in Ember was enough to make him stand. “I didn’t want this,” he said. “I don’t even know what I did.”

  Jeremiah just stared. He didn’t speak, but the message was clear, He would have his revenge or die trying.

  Swallowing hard, Ember ran, picking his way through rubble and corpses. The few people left unscathed sat there, shell-shocked. They didn’t even look at him as he sprinted past, his breath ragged, his mind in complete panic as he stumbled out of the cathedral and into the wilderness.

  He ran and ran, through bushes, past trees, crashing through branches, not even registering any of it. All he could think about was the bodies he caused. The people he killed without any control over it. He was faintly aware of the path he ran down, the same one he biked on that led him to the cathedral in the first place. The path looked more used and wider. His foot snagged on something, and he tumbled to the ground in a mess of limbs and dirt.

  Sobs racked his body as the images of the people he killed flashed, consuming his every thought. He screamed and cursed himself and the sword. The one he just couldn’t seem to let go.

  Every part of his body screamed with exhaustion. His hands shook uncontrollably. “I’m a murderer. I’m a monster,” he whispered. The image of those frozen corpses in the dungeon crossed his fear-addled mind. I’m not different from them.

  As his vision faded, the crackle of wood caught his attention. Jeremiah must have found me, Ember thought as his mind started to go quiet. Why? Why me?

  Those were his last thoughts as he blacked out.