He was stuck somewhere, somewhere without light. Strong hands grasped at his limbs. He needed to get free, to hurt and maim.

  A weight on his chest awoke him. In a wisp of lucidity, the thoughts and scenes of blood and violence melted away, leaving only the sensation of sweaty skin against the sheets and an inner void. His eyes flashed wide open, two cat eyes stared into his own black orbs from inches away. The orange cat, Whiskey, had not let him out of sight for days. He gave a shudder, glancing at the window. Mellow light flowed through the curtains.

  Around seven. Four hours of sleep, if you could even call it that.

  The shock of returning to the Richters' home had subsided as quickly as it had happened, leaving him with only scars, blessings and nightmares. He swung his feet out of the bed, putting the purring cat to the side. His arm was regenerated, that much he had done himself. He glanced at the mirror, bags under his eyes and pearls of sweat lining his forehead. He placed the claws over his face sucking in air through his sharp teeth.

  "The urge won't leave," he sputtered with quickening pulse. "An ache in my gums for something soft and bloody. A hunger for bloodshed so raw it burns worse than any flame."

  A shudder went through his body, the two black eyes staring into the reflection between the gaps in the claws. The tip of each finger pressed against his temple, threatening to pierce the skin. "Why am I so empty? There used to be more in that place. Not just hunger and that urge."

  "They were so close to breaking me, so close, so close," he whispered, pressing the words out of his mouth.

  "How do I fix it, how do I become whole again? Find them, hurt them in ways unimaginable, wring their skin, sever their limbs—"

  The cold snout of a cat touched his skin, the rough texture of a tongue against his chin. The cat had forced its way into his lap, pushing his hands away. The scarred cat purred like a water boiler, the gleaming cat eyes searching for his gaze. His pulse slowed, and after a moment, he let out a breath he hadn't even noticed he was holding in. He met the cat eyes in earnest.

  "Thank you."

  He reached for his pants, a hole sewn for his tail by Astrid. From the belt hung a scabbard of gleaming metal. The Blinking Blade.

  His suffering hadn't gone unrewarded. For their work they'd been given coin, and more importantly, half a dozen coals from the professors creations. Used to push Astrid and Elenya to the brink of the next blessed tier. Fireling, a tier he already inhabited.

  He sated that indescribable feeling with vows of slaughter and looked inwards to his Ember, or where it used to be. Now a tiny flame was flickering there, casting long shadows behind the horrors he’d consumed. A certain one rose above the rest, the spidery form of Jonah. Still, he calmed himself by going through them one by one, each a testament to how far he'd climbed:

  Krii′ttch, Ravenous Ratling, a gruesome mix between a rat and a man.

  Milley, Tireless Gatherer, a jumble of human arms, sewn to a core somewhere beneath.

  Ivan, Last of Kin, a shriveled skeleton with bones as tough as oak.

  Blavssish, Corpse Child, a massive, one-clawed crab fused with two eels.

  Jonah, of Lost Hope, a spidery amalgamation of his own flesh with half a dozen oversized arms.

  And one particularly horrifying monster wearing human skin, Jusjenko, Lightning Step. Foulest of them all.

  He was a rat-eater no longer. He could even become a human again, though he’d rather rip out his own guts than carry the face of a Gulschak. Nor did he wish for it, he needed more fangs and claws, not brittle human skin. He moved on, pulling on the information he knew he could find in the back of his head. It came to him as easily as breathing.

  Wretch, Collector of Wounds

  Fireling

  Times Kindled: 4

  Regeneration: Consume flame to restore broken flesh. Purging rot and poison. Greater wounds demand greater cost.

  Flesh Stealer: Consume flame to reshape the body and take the form of any blessed you have slain and devoured, the change can be overwritten only by a new shape. Each change decreases your maximum flame permanently.

  He knew these powers better than his own name, especially regeneration, it had saved his life more times than he dared recall. Flesh Stealer was the source of his whipping tail, sharp teeth, black bones, strengthened muscles, dual claws and dark eyes. He didn't know how much the changes had decreased his total flame but he suspected each change had decreased his total reserves by around one percent. Well worth it.

  The times kindled had jumped despite his recent arrival at Fireling. Astrid had told him he had sucked in several coals during his ascent, that must have been the reason.

  Doesn’t matter, ten times and then Blaze, he thought.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Easier said than done. To kindle, he needed coals from the corpses of Blessed, or to defeat them in battle. Even if he succeeded and made it to ten, Edmund had been a Fireling for a decade despite kindling dozens of times.

  Ascension was never guaranteed. But now, something new flickered at the edge of his awareness, the true reason slews of Embers yearned for the rank of Fireling. A third Blessing, granted by the enigmatic powers of the Flame.

  Form Weave

  Weave flame into temporary flesh. A fast, unstable, and temporary change from the Blessed forms at your disposal. Costs a large amount of flame to use and to maintain.

  Wretch’s reflection pulled its lips into a mockery of a smile. The Blessing was simple, but promising. He'd become a master at changing his flesh and rebuilding lost tissue, perhaps that is why the Flame rewarded him with something like this.

  Outside, the clocktowers chimed, one after the other. Six in the morning.

  He picked up the purring Whiskey and patted the cat before setting it down on the floor. The house was quiet as he snuck down to the training room. Whiskey followed him down the stairs, lying down in a corner and watching his every move.

  Wretch walked on bare feet across the cold stone, stretching his arms and limbering up his muscles.

  “Well then,” he whispered, closing his eyes. "Next time we meet, dear professor. I'll be a different beast." He reached for a form in his mind’s eye. Milley, the creature made of human arms. He gave his flame meaning urging it to use his new Blessing and visualized a gruesome change. Sharp pain burst from his back as flesh twisted, bones formed and nerves sprouted into place. A quivering stump tore through the skin, rapidly evolving into functional anatomy. A human arm grew from his shoulder in a grotesque and bloody bloom.

  The arm, glistening in transparent fluid mixed with blood, hung limp. Still, it drained his flame with every heartbeat in a guzzling stream. He hadn’t anchored it well enough. It seemed it wasn’t enough to spring the forms from nothing, to use them, he’d need to connect them properly to his own flesh. It was a powerful Blessing but demanded an equal amount of flame and finesse, he'd expect nothing less.

  I have my work cut out for me, good. I’ll review the anatomy book.

  He let the concentration go, and the arm slithered back into his skin, not even leaving a scar. Just a smattering of blood. A pang of anticipation nestled inside him, refreshing feelings in that inner void. The long dark hands of Jonah, lined with teeth. The Corpse Child’s rotten claw. Milley’s hundred arms. The possibilities to follow that urge, the potential for brutality.

  Another shiver ran through him, and he slithered his tail forward. Focusing on the Blinking Blade, the weapon took form like oily paper burning in reverse, clutched by his tail. He felt a need to move and sprang into a flurry of attacks, eviscerating the air. He practiced in silence, fighting imaginary figures in exaggerated masks. An hour later, sweat dampened his skin and his lungs were burning. The exertion soothed like water on a red-hot engine, but had his physique improved after the ascension? It was just enough to be noticeable, a millisecond of increased reactions, an ounce of increased strength in his already changed muscles.

  Heavy steps moved down the stairs. The tail flicked the Blinking Blade into the air, and he caught it in a clawed hand. From the sound, he already knew who it was.

  Elenya swung open the door, dressed in loose pants and a white shirt. Her wild ginger hair was styled with a handful of long, thin braids and around her neck hung a medallion. One of his claws twitched.

  A large red gemstone inlaid with silver. Wretch knew what it did, though he'd always been on the receiving end of its power.

  Linked Flame Medallion

  Transfer flame to another blessed; the received amount will be less than that spent.

  After use, your tongue will feel scalded for an hour.

  “Hey there, Ratty. Up early?” she said with a grin.

  “That’s not my name anymore!” he answered. “Just some training for things to come.”

  “Hmm, those black eyes and teeth suit you. Like someone, or something you shouldn’t mess with,” she said with a nod.

  “I am working on that last part. My new power… it needs a lot of work,” he said.

  Whiskey stretched in the corner and walked up to circle the feet of the tall woman.

  “I disagree with Edmund,” she said, taking two wooden swords off the wall. “Don’t waste a second. We have to climb higher to get what we want, right? To ascend.”

  Wretch glared at her. He’d only seen her this nice halfway through a bottle, or covered in blood. “So what do you say?” Elenya said, tossing him a wooden sword. He caught it but didn’t answer.

  They looked at each other in silence, then he gave a halfhearted smile requiring more effort than the last hour ever had. “I’m a Fireling. I won’t hold back just because you're still an Ember.”

  “Oh, you’re so going to get it now.”

  Despite their taunts, they started at a careful pace, feeling each other out with telegraphed jabs and careful steps. Wretch was the first to raise it up a notch, charging forward in a flurry of light blows and sharp claws. Elenya’s defense struggled but held, precise but lacking his swiftness.

  “There we are!” she said, deflecting another blow. “Finally, some sharpness to that offense of yours.” Her eyes lit with fire, shades of red creeping up her pale skin. Her blessing offered both increased speed and strength. “But let's see if you can stand against this.”

  Wretch’s eyes were cold, his tail snapping against the stone behind him. “Bring it all.”

  The practice quickened into a deadly dance. She flowed with perfect footwork, each strike clean and sharp. Wretch countered with speed and unpredictability, each clawed hand as deadly as a sharpened knife, the tail strong enough to choke out a man.

  He lost himself in the raging rhythm and chorus of deflected strikes. Leaving him not even a moment to think about anything but the next strike. In the end, Elenya caught him with a trip. He rolled over his shoulder and shot back to his feet, but she was already there, a wooden sword resting against his neck.

  Panting, she lowered the mock weapon. Elenya was still superior in hand to hand combat, a testament to her talent, rigorous training and effective Blessings. Still in the chaos of a real battle, the playing field would favor him, and that was without his new Blessing.

  “You’re holding back,” he said with wheezing breath.

  “Not much,” she said with a shrug. “But the Captain would have my head if I messed you up.”

  Wretch scoffed. “As if the old man could. After all this, he’s a week of stress away from a retirement home.”

  She blinked, brow raised in surprise, then burst into unrestrained laughter. It was a poor joke at best, but the ridiculous sound of her bellowing cackle tugged at the edge of his mouth. He fought it, but lost that battle too, returning a hoarse wheeze of a laugh.

  The sound carried out of the training room, up the stairwell and into the common room. At the noise, Astrid and Edmund paused over steaming mugs. They looked at each other, and Astrid tilted her head while Edmund just shook his with a chuckle.

  "These next days are important, Astrid. But I fear the time to heal will be cut short, it always is."