Even When It’s Just Embers

Malcus knew the train would stop—he just didn’t expect it to scream first.

The door slammed open. Soldiers poured in. Husbands were ripped from wives. Parents from weeping children. Malcus prayed silently, clutching his bag to his chest as soldiers tore through the carriage.

“Order. Unity. Reason.” The loudspeaker crackled, looping the Empire’s slogan over the chaos. Malcus kept his eyes low, gripping his bag tighter as the soldiers tore through the baggage around him.

“Open the bag.”

Malcus stared at his boots, lips moving in a soundless prayer to Saint Murael.

“I said open the bag!” The soldier grabbed Malcus’ arm, nearly pulling him from his seat.

He looked up—into a cold metallic faceplate. The soldier loomed above him, encased in thick armour, a cumbersome rifle in one hand.

“It’s nothing, just some food and belongings,” Malcus stammered. “All I could salvage.”

The soldier raised a fist—

A scream tore through the carriage. Another man was on his knees.

“Religious contraband will not be tolerated.” A soldier held up a pendant—a spiral flame, swinging like a noose.

The soldiers swarmed the man, dragging him from the train as he begged for mercy.

“Why did they take that man, mummy?”

“Because he was a heretic,” the mother replied in a low voice. “He believed in that old fire cult nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Malcus muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

She stiffened. A few passengers turned toward him.

Malcus kept his voice low but steady. “He believed the flame remembers. That’s not so foolish.”

A man nearby shuffled away, clutching his coat like it might hide him.

“What does that mean?” the boy asked.

“It means the fire keeps our stories,” Malcus said, “even after we’re gone. As long as it burns, we’re not forgotten. That’s what Saint Murael taught.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. Someone murmured agreement.

Malcus leaned in. “We keep the fire alive. Even when it’s just embers. Those were her last words.”

“His father died because of those words,” the mother snapped.

Malcus met her gaze. “Then it’s important he knows them. Our faith is not theirs to extinguish.”

Movement caught his eye—a passenger slipping away, whispering to a soldier, pointing back at him.

Malcus clutched his bag, the petrified remains of Saint Murael encased inside, as the soldier pushed toward him. The heavy armour and crush of unorganised passengers slowed his advance.

Malcus had little time. He scrambled to his feet and edged toward the door.

“I’m the one you want,” an older man said, stepping in front of the soldier and raising a spiral flame pendant.

The soldier seized him without hesitation.

“The Empire fears what it cannot measure,” the man sneered as he was dragged away.

Malcus threw open the door, glancing back at the man one last time.

“The fire remembers,” he muttered, then dropped to the ground below.

Malcus shouldered the bag, its canvas still smoky from the temple, and disappeared into the undergrowth. He was determined to save what remained of Saint Murael—if it was the last thing he did.

He had been at the shrine when the Empire attacked. The town guard tried to hold them back, but were cut down in volleys of musket fire. The way the Empire corrupted fire—twisted it into something cruel—sickened him.

Many of the abbots had tried to hide. Some scrambled to save what they could. Others took up arms, only to be captured or cut down as the soldiers ransacked the shrine.

It was Master Kilneth who had entrusted the petrified relics to Malcus. The old man had gripped his hand as he lay bleeding on the shrine floor.

“Get them to the Emberhold,” he’d said. “Where Murael immolated herself. To rekindle hope, to restore peace.”

Terrified, Malcus had bundled the fire-touched bones into his bag and fled into the night, Kilneth’s final words still burning in his ears…

“Saint Murael lit the fire with her bones. We just carry the smoke.”

Night enveloped Malcus. He had been running from the soldiers since escaping the train. Cold, wet, and exhausted, he stumbled through the woods, trusting his faith to guide him. The fire remembers.

Malcus crept from the treeline towards the rise leading to Emberhold. The terrain was rough—it was why Saint Murael and the other Kindlers took refuge here during the first purge.

He scrambled up the slope. Hope flickered in his chest. Once he delivered the remains, they would be safe. He looked up and saw the smoke from the Eternal Pyre—kept alight since Murael’s self-immolation. So close.

Malcus crested the rise and looked down at the Emberhold. His smile faltered. The gate was smashed aside. The Eternal Pyre had become a furnace—fire raged across the sanctuary. Soldiers moved between the buildings. Abbots lay dead before him.

All this way—and for what? Malcus’ hope turned to ash. What now? Where could he take Saint Murael’s remains now? Where was safe?

A rifle butt struck his temple. The world turned black.

Malcus awoke to the sound of a crowd. His hands were bound behind him and attached to the looming scaffold. A deep pool of water was below him—stagnant and foul. The Empire’s new way of executing believers: drowning, to extinguish their flame once and for all.

Empire banners flapped around the square, forcibly filled with onlookers—herded in by soldiers to witness the death of a heretic.

In the crowd, a boy stood holding his mother’s hand.

“Is that the man from the train?” the boy asked.

She hushed him, fighting back tears.

Malcus raised his head, blood crusted in his hair, and looked out over the crowd.

With his last breath, he cried out, “We keep the fire alive—”

He was plunged headfirst into the water. He thrashed desperately, but the ropes didn’t yield.

“Even when it’s just embers,” the boy whispered, his voice filled with something both tragic and hopeful.