Our footsteps echoed through the dark, winding alleys of the district known as the slums. I could see the clean-swept ground before me, and Hugh, my guide from The Broken Shield, navigated the stone labyrinth with a drunken certainty, staggering but never faltering.

  "Hey, shorty, k-keep up, hiccup... I don't have all night… urgh, my head…" His slurred voice drifted back to me, thick with the scent of the expensive liquor Jim had given him.

  I was grateful for the help, but doubt gnawed at me. Was this really a good idea? Shaking my head, I picked up my pace, the damp, metallic tang of rain-soaked stone filling the air.

  It wasn't long before the narrow, oppressive alley opened unexpectedly into a large, clean-swept square. Here and there, campfires burned brightly, casting a warm, flickering light on neatly arranged shelters—a mix of sturdy, patched tents and simple wooden shacks built with care. The comforting, rustic smell of woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, masking the usual stench of the city.

  A few people sat by the flames or walked through the small "village," and a peaceful, almost unnatural quiet hung over the square. I could hear the murmur of low voices and the rhythmic snores of the sleeping, but the hacking coughs and groans of pain I’d expected were absent. It seemed the stories were true; this place had been transformed.

  Hugh stopped, his brow furrowed as his vacant gaze swept the area. He raised his bottle, took a few deep gulps, and lowered it with a satisfied sigh.

  "Even though I heard about it," he slurred, "I'm too sober to believe what I'm seeing."

  After a few more swigs, he crossed himself sloppily. What an absolutely odd character. Shaking my head, I stepped closer, wrinkling my nose as the overpowering reek of liquor washed over me. I let out a sigh of my own. "Do you know where we can find someone who can help us?"

  Thank the gods, the lanky guide nodded immediately and began walking deeper into the village. We passed tidy dwellings and calm-faced people until Hugh stopped at a post, running a hand over its splintered surface. "You stay here, shorty." A second later, he pushed aside a heavy canvas flap and disappeared inside.

  Leaning against the rough-hewn post, I settled in to wait as time stretched on. My gaze wandered, settling on a woman by a campfire with two small children nestled against her. They were hugging, their soft laughter a fragile, beautiful sound in the gloom.

  Family… A sharp pang of loss shot through me. I missed that more than ever. Pained, I looked away, rubbing my cold hands together.

  A sigh escaped me. What is the point of having fire magic if I don't use it to fight off the chill? Conjuring a small flame in each hand, I let the welcome warmth seep into my skin. Magic was a strange thing; I could feel the heat ripple across my palms, a comforting presence that promised destruction to others but not to me.

  Lost in thought, I stood waiting until a strange noise broke the silence. Tok… tok… tok…

  From the corner of my eye, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was an elderly man, his back crooked with age, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Ah! So that was the noise. He looked poor, his clothes patched but clean, and his weathered face held a friendly, if weary, expression. He didn't seem to be a threat.

  Shuffling closer, he stopped about two meters away and bowed his head respectfully.

  "Good evening, young master. Please forgive this old man's impoliteness, but I was hoping you might be able to light my campfire. I'm afraid I'm no longer able to do it myself, and the nights have become so bitterly cold…" his voice was calm as he explained his plight, but there was a thin tremor of desperation beneath the surface.

  A pang of sympathy for the old man cut through my own weariness. In this place, a small flame could be the difference between freezing and surviving another night. Of course, I would help.

  "Yes, of course. Lead the way," I replied, extinguishing the fire in one hand to follow him. He closed his eyes, a grateful nod his only response, before turning and leading me to his tent.

  The flame in my remaining hand lit the way. His tent was only about four meters away, which was probably why he'd seen me. The old man walked around his fire pit and sat down heavily on a wooden crate.

  "Here it is. Unfortunately, I just can't seem to get the wood to light…" he said dejectedly, pointing a trembling finger at the pile of wood before him.

  I bent down, my fingers brushing against the wood. It was soaked through… no wonder he couldn't light it. "We'll get it sorted, don't you worry," I said with a confident smile, and a visible weight seemed to lift from his frail shoulders.

  Hitting the wet wood with fire would just turn it to charcoal. How could I dry it without charring it or taking forever? Indirect heat would take too long. Could I pull the water out with water magic? It was a possibility, but I had never tried to move existing water, only what I summoned myself.

  Taking a piece of wood in one hand, I held my other over it and tried to summon the same push-and-pull feeling. Nothing. The wood remained stubbornly damp. I stared at the piece of wood thoughtfully, noticing my hand was getting colder; the wood was frozen solid. If only I had gloves… I couldn't exactly hold the wood and warm my hand at the same time.

  But then, a flash of insight hit me. Fire isn't an element like air, earth, or water. It's just energy! What if I could channel that energy into my hand and transfer it to the wood, causing the water to evaporate?

  There was only one way to find out. Theory is just theory until it's proven in practice.

  Summoning as little fire as possible into the hand holding the wood proved to be damn difficult. Sometimes nothing happened; other times a flame would lick past the wood. I sighed internally. Trying to learn a new application of magic while the old man watched with a mixture of hope and confusion wasn't making this any easier. But I knew I would get it eventually.

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  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the flow of mana into my hand. It felt like a current flowing through my arm, into my palm, and then out—but I didn't want that. I needed it to gather, to pool in my hand, even as a momentary fear flashed through me that my hand would explode if I collected too much. I took a deep breath, regulating the output. The mana had to stay, to build. In theory, the heat would distribute over my skin but also dissipate into the air. I had to let a constant amount flow in to maintain the temperature.

  Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. It was a delicate balance, feeding just a tiny bit more mana into my hand than it was releasing, right up to the razor's edge where fire would ignite. A little too much, and a flame sparked; too little, and the heat vanished.

  But my theory bore fruit. When I opened my eyes again, the wood was steaming. Nice! I'm on the right track.

  After a few more minutes, I had a perfectly balanced output. The wood steamed violently until the last wisp of moisture was gone. Wood one of ten was done. I picked up the next piece and repeated the process. This time, it didn't take as long to find the balance, and the wood began to steam. In less than a minute, it was dry. By the time I reached the last piece, I just had to will the magic, and the wood steamed instantly.

  I felt as happy as a little kid. A new tool in my toolbox. Suddenly, a message bloomed in my awareness.

  < Skill improved: Fire Magic (Beginner) -> (Adept) >

  A huge grin spread across my face. My efforts had paid off. Now to light the fire and get the old man warm.

  I took three pieces of wood and arranged them, carrying the remaining logs into the old man's tent before kneeling before the fire pit. I pointed my palm towards the wood and summoned fire magic. Carefully, I added air magic and heard a soft shriek as the flames took hold. I think I'll call this spell Mini Roaring Flames.

  I chuckled quietly, "I'm a firestarter… twisted firestarter…" which earned me a strange look from the old man. "Pardon?"

  I just laughed and waved it off as the wood began to burn, the flames slowly dancing upwards, bathing us in light and warmth. Perplexed, I furrowed my brow as another message appeared.

  < Spell improved: Roaring Flames (Inferior) -> (Beginner) >

  Another one?! Who would have thought a small act of charity would bear such fruit? Maybe I should help out in here more often?

  Satisfied, I looked at the old man. His face was beaming, and with great effort, he bowed before me again. "Young master, I thank you a thousand times. You have given this old man not only warmth but also hope for another day. The nights are getting colder, and I don't know how much longer I would have lasted without a fire."

  A familiar ache bloomed in my chest. Gods, I knew this cold, this hunger, all too well. I had been in his situation for many, many nights. Every day an agony, a struggle for survival.

  "Please, you don't have to bow to me. I'm just glad I could help." My voice was thick with empathy. "I've placed the rest of the dry wood in your tent so you can add more when the fire starts to die down. The important thing is, if you find more wet wood, lay it next to the fire so it can dry. That should last you a while. Unfortunately, I have to go now, or my companion will leave without me." We had business here, and I didn't take Hugh for the type to wait around.

  I turned and took a few steps, then glanced back one last time and raised my hand in farewell.

  The old man nodded gently, his face illuminated by the new fire, and returned the wave. "Thank you. May the Well of Solace bless you."

  I froze mid-step. May the Well of Solace bless you.

  He had heard of it too. He knew. This was my chance to ask, to find out more. I opened my mouth to speak, to press him for details, but fate had other plans. A strong hand landed heavily on my shoulder, nearly knocking me off balance.

  "There you are, shorty," Hugh grumbled, pulling me along before I could protest. "Come on, we've got a date. Don't leave a lady waiting."

  A short time later, we stood before the canvas flap of a neatly constructed shack. Hugh had dragged me unceremoniously through the village, muttering about this 'date.' My shoulders slumped. I hoped this drunkard knew what he was doing; I had no desire to end up in some back-alley brothel or a trap.

  "I'm getting tired, so let's get in there." Without hesitation, he gave me a light kick in the rear that sent me stumbling into the shack. Before I could pull the curtain from my face, a woman's voice screamed,

  "OUT! GET OUT, YOU SCUM!"

  Frantically tearing the canvas from my head, my hands raised placatingly, I started, "Sor—" but my head was roughly pushed aside as I stumbled sideways.

  "Yo, we're from the Ash Matron. So don't scream like that, man… you're way too loud…" Hugh grumbled, digging a finger in his ear with a disapproving tut.

  The air inside was close, smelling of herbs and sickness, but it was surprisingly clean. A small fire in the center of the shack cast a gentle light. In front of me stood the woman who had just screamed. She was young, maybe twenty, with long, matted brown hair and a frightened expression.

  "Th-the Ash Matron? Wh-what do you want from me? I don't have any money… so please go," she stammered, backing away.

  Hugh just groaned in annoyance, leaning against a post in the corner.

  "I'm sorry, madam," I interjected, stepping forward and trying to look as harmless as possible. "We're not here for money. We're just looking for my cat, that's all. She's black with white paws and a white spot on her chest. Have you perhaps seen her?" I asked, my voice tight with hope.

  The woman’s eyes widened, a flicker of something haunted and sad passing through them before she dropped her gaze to the floor, her fingers twisting nervously in the hem of her tunic. "The Well of Solace… is your cat?"

  So she knows. Pip... The relief and fear collided in my chest. I couldn't hold back. My words tumbled out in a rush. "Have you seen her? Do you know where she is? Please, tell me everything you know…"

  Beckoning me over with a sad, defeated expression, the woman whispered, "Please, come with me…"

  She walked to one of the cloth partitions and pushed it partly aside. From a distance, I saw a child my age lying on a simple mat on the packed-earth floor. Uncertain, I stepped closer, and my eyes shot open in shock. A gigantic burn wound covered the boy's torso. Probably eighty percent of his body was a mass of scarred, healed-over flesh. How anyone could survive that was a mystery.

  The woman took a deep, shuddering breath as she pushed the cloth fully aside, revealing the entire space.

  Next to the boy on the muddy ground... lay Pip.

  Her once-shiny black fur was now matted with dried mud. Her snow-white, velvety paws were covered in dirt and filth. Her mouth was wide open, her tongue hanging out... her head lay in a pool of blood, and her chest was not moving. My poor, endlessly beloved Pip lay lifeless in the filth of a gutter shack.

  The tears came. They ran hot and wet down my cheeks.

  A violence I could not control began to boil inside me. The planks of the hut started to creak, the ground vibrated, and the woman looked at me with panicked, mortal fear. My pain manifested itself in a gruesome way.

  The shack began to shake. The young woman screamed in agony as she fell to her knees, supporting herself with all her might on her hands. At the edge of my consciousness, I heard Hugh scream, "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!"

  Cracks formed in the ground, and the shack swayed wildly. Panicked screams could be heard throughout the slums. Despair filled the air. But none of that mattered to me. I only felt a burning, consuming, and bottomless rage.

  The young woman cried loudly, tears streaming down her cheek. Despite all the noise, I heard her words clearly. "I-I'm... I'm so... sorry..."

  The world trembled, threatening to break apart. My field of vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Blood replaced the tears, a red haze filling my eyes.

  "What have you done... to my cat?"