Eyes of Fire: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Bad Place

            Hamal knew he was asleep. Based on his breathing, heart rate, the way the blood moved through his body, and several other signs, he knew he was unconscious. That meant this had to be a dream. It existed but not the way the inn existed or the way the dirty town of Redsprin existed.

            And yet, as he turned around in a slow circle and gaped, his mouth open, the land around him seemed oddly…real. This was possibly the most realistic dream he’d ever had.

            He could smell the smoky air and feel the sand shifting under his boots as he turned. The sky was a strange shade of brown, almost like cinnamon, and the sun was a dull, orangey globe above his head. He didn’t need to squint or shade his eyes as he peered up at it, because the brightness that should have been there wasn’t.

            He was standing on top of a sand dune. As far as he could see in any direction lay other sand dunes and, in the small valleys in between them, large puddles of black wetness. They sort of reminded him of a swamp he’d seen once, but they didn’t appear to be filled with water or mud. He thought it might be tar. There was so much smoke in the air that his head was starting to feel tight. He lifted the collar of his tunic and held it over his nose. This dream was turning out to be stranger and stranger. Now it was trying to give him a headache, and it was very hard for most things to give him headaches.

            He stood there for a long time and waited for something to happen. That was usually how dreams began—someone came along, or something changed, or you realized you had to be somewhere.

            But nothing changed. The land around him stayed exactly the way it was, and Hamal’s head remained tight and achy, and he barely cast a shadow because the sky acted like it was trying to cover the sun with blankets.

            Shel Galen, his grandfather, had much to say about dreams and how the gods sometimes spoke through them. Hamal lifted his brows. Well, if this dream was a message from a god, it couldn’t be a good one.

            He froze.

            Rosy. The oracle.

            The little girl was asleep in the room with him, and she had a powerful gift that could peer into the realm where the gods lived and see what they were doing. Was this a Rosy dream? Did this place look and seem real to him not because of him—but because of her?

            Oh, you poor child. Was this horrible place what she saw whenever she used her gift? Hamal’s heart began to hurt. He almost reached up and rubbed his chest. This place was not a good place. No child should live here—or even visit here. It wasn’t safe and it wasn’t healthy. He had to find her.

            He took a deep breath, hoping the fabric of his tunic would help filter it, and then lowered his tunic and called out, “Where are you, Rosy? Where are you?”

            She did not appear. The land lay empty and still.

            He had no idea where he would find a small child in this smoke-filled place filled with rolling dunes, but he couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Eventually he picked a direction and started walking. Really, there weren’t many directions he could go. He had to pick his way around the tar puddles.

            He climbed down the sandy slope and then clambered up the slope on the other side, the sand sucking on his boots with each step. Once on the ridge of the second slope, he looked around again and saw only the same things—rolling dunes, puddles of black stuff, brown sky, quiet sun. A hot wind came by and told him more about this place and how it wasn’t good for children. Something had died nearby. The smoke mixed with the eerie stench of decay and death.

            He kept walking. Up and down. Hill after hill. One time he paused and cocked his head, listening as an animal howled somewhere in the distance. He didn’t recognize the cry and—considering the rest of the dream so far—thought he probably wouldn’t like the animal, whatever it happened to be.

            Step after sandy step. He repeatedly called Rosy’s name and wondered what his grandfather would say about the dark, sticky-looking puddles that lay like dozens and dozens of traps in his path.

            “Oh, Rosy,” he murmured as the dry, fiery wind swept over him, blowing sand. “I am so sorry about all of this. This is not a good place, and this is not the work of a good god. I promise you. I promise, Rosy—I am going to show you what a good god looks like. You will get to see what a good god is doing, and you will get to be a child again.”

            He sighed deeply and then continued trudging, trapped in a little girl’s nightmare.

            Tracking through the brown sky, the sun shifted in color, darkening to red-brown as it approached the horizon. Evening was approaching—night. Hamal could not imagine being in a place like this after dark. Who knew what prowled these slopes when the sun was gone?

            How many times had Rosy been to this place?

            What horrors had she seen here?

            The wind began to change. The stench of something dead returned, stronger this time, until Hamal doubled up his tunic so he could keep breathing. He was used to dead things and dead smells. All healers were. But this wind carried despair he could feel pushing against his skin. He tripped as he climbed up the next dune, landing on his knees, one hand, and one elbow. Struggling up to his feet again, he completed the climb and stopped at the top of the rise, every muscle in his body going still.

            On the other side of the dune was a long, wide area that was sandy and completely flat, with more dunes rising on the far side. A large black desk stood in the exact center of the clearing. It was the size of the king’s dining table. Stacks of coins covered the desk’s surface—it was a towering forest of coins—and someone was counting them. The man seated behind the desk matched the desk length for length. His bare shoulders were like the shoulders of a mountain, and his arms were twice as long as Hamal’s entire body. A black crown encircled his bald head, and his skin changed colors, washing gray and then black-purple, then a sickly kind of yellow, like an old bruise no one had bothered to heal.

            Hamal dropped into a crouch, his heart thundering.

            He watched as the man counted the wealth on his desk. He would pick up a coin, hold it in his palm, and then move it to the next pile. Every ten coins, he picked up a quill pen and scribbled something in a huge ledger in front of him. Then he would lay the quill aside and resume counting.

            Hamal released his breath slowly. Something was wrong with those coins. Those looked like real coins, but even from this distance, he could feel them, the same way he could feel another healer.

            Why, he thought desperately, is this terrible thing in Rosy’s dream?

            He knew he hadn’t spoken aloud. But the large head with the black crown lifted, and a dark, vile gaze met Hamal’s. The man—no, Hamal didn’t think this was a man. This was a disease that had taken human form.

            The monster-god did not rise from his chair. He didn’t see an intruder and move to attack. Instead, his lips pulled back, revealing multiple rows of teeth, and the creature reached over to a random stack and picked up a single coin from the desk’s vast treasure. Between powerful-looking fingers, he lifted the coin and turned it so Hamal could see its face.

            Hamal was a long distance away, still crouched on top of the sand dune. But somehow in Rosy’s dream, distance didn’t matter. He could easily see the image embedded in the coin’s surface.

            A crown on top of a jewel.

            Confusion rushed through Hamal’s system as he looked at the coin and tried to understand. A crown and a jewel? This was Rosy’s dream—did that mean this was her coin? Did it represent her in some way? He couldn’t understand how either of those two images might go with an oracle. She was not a jeweler. Nor was she a queen, a princess, or any other type of ruler. She was just a little girl without any family.

            The wicked smile widened. Hamal had the stomach-turning sense that he had given the monster-god exactly what he wanted, though what that was Hamal couldn’t imagine.

            The monster-god set the coin back on its towering stack and resumed counting, marking the ledger every ten coins. He did not look up again.

            The acidic wind grew more severe, sweeping over the dunes and across the flat land. The monster-god’s stench became choking. All breathable air disappeared from Rosy’s dream, and Hamal jerked backward and—

            —and sat straight up on the bed.

            The old frame creaked beneath the sudden change in his position. His heart was shouting in his chest and in his ears. A fire gleamed on the hearth, and a lamp burned on the small table next to the bed, but the light barely reached beyond the corners of the bed. It wasn’t enough light. The room remained horribly dark.

            A hand landed on Hamal’s arm. A strong grip held him. “Hamal.” Cale’s voice. “Are you all right?”

            Gasping for breath, Hamal told his heart to calm, and it obeyed. His breathing quieted, and he scanned the room again, searching for a small pair of fire-filled eyes gleaming in the darkness. He did not find them. “Where’s Rosy?”

            “Peace, Hamal,” Cale said. “She’s fine. She’s in the next room with Chestirad, who seems to think he’s good with children.” Cale shook his head like he did not fully trust this assessment.

            Hamal felt the seer’s eyes.

            Cale’s voice grew tight. “What happened? We could not wake you, no matter what we tried. Rosy awakened easily, but you we could not bring back to consciousness. It is now the evening of the second day. What happened?” he repeated.

            Hamal groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. “I think I saw the god Rosy is shadowing.”

            Cale grew still. “Yes?”

            Hamal nodded sadly. “Oh, Cale. This is not a god we want in King’s Barrow. This is a bad god. I don’t know who it is, but I think it might be the one in charge of diseases. Plagues and horrible things like that. It had a desk full of coins—hundreds of coins—and I think they’re all people who are sick. He was proud of his coins, and he was counting them. He showed me one, and I thought it might be Rosy’s coin, but…that doesn’t make any sense. She isn’t a jeweler.”

            Cale slowly leaned back in his chair. He stared at Hamal and did not speak. A log cracked on the hearth. A small cloud of sparks rose up around the base of the chimney.

            “You were wise, I think,” Hamal said at last, “to sleep in a different room last night! Was this what you foresaw, that she would dream?”

            Cale grimaced slightly. “I saw there would be complications and that we wouldn’t be able to leave in the morning, the way we intended. I didn’t know what the complications would be.”

            “I want to see Rosy. I want to make sure she’s all right.” Hamal felt like the dream still stood in the room with him, holding on. He wanted the image of that strange, terrible god to leave him, but more than this, he wanted to go and comfort Rosy, if she would let him. He wanted to hold this little girl who had known only pain and found herself shadowing a god of disease. After that dream, he knew more about Rosy than even what her bones had told him, and he wanted to comfort all the fear from her.

            The chair scraped across the floor as Cale stood. “Let us go now.”

            They stepped out into the hallway and crossed to the next room, which held a few more people than was naturally comfortable for such a small space. Chestirad was pacing back and forth by the fireplace; Masly Hawl was pacing by the window. Lord Rhyan, seated on one of the two beds, was trying to read a book, but it didn’t seem to be going very well. He was scowling.

            Gregory Almes was seated on the edge of the other bed, writing a slew of words in his notebook. Hamal could hear the pencil as it scraped the page, and this gave him an idea, a good idea, but it needed to wait for a few minutes. Right now, there was a little girl who needed kindness.

            Voices erupted as the men saw Cale with Hamal right behind him, but at a gesture from the seer, they all fell silent.

            Hamal saw the one he sought. Rosy was sitting on the floor in the corner. Again she had returned to the corner, Hamal noticed with sorrow. She watched him with dark eyes as he walked up to her slowly and crouched down.

            He wanted to touch her, but he remembered what her bones had felt like and every detail of the place he’d seen in her dream. So he just squatted there and didn’t try to lay his hands on her. “Rosy.”

            If possible, the room grew even quieter.

            “I know what you see when you use your gift,” Hamal said, speaking slowly so he wouldn’t scare her more than she was. “You see a large, terrible land filled with sand and smoke and a monster-god who sits at a desk and counts coins.”

            When he heard her heart jump, he wanted to put his arms around her even more. She was used to hiding, to revealing nothing to those who might cause her pain, but her heartbeat gave her away.

             “There, there, Rosy,” he said, lifting his hand in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “It is going to be all right. I don’t know how to do this yet, but I am going to find a way to save you. One day, I promise, you will never have to see that horrible god again.”

            She didn’t move.

            He waited, giving her time to respond. When she did nothing, he nodded and stood up. He turned around and looked at Gregory, who was also staring at him.

            Hamal pointed to Gregory’s notebook. “May I borrow that?”

– H –

Author’s note:

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Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Eyes of Fire: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Rabbit in the Fox Den

            “Hamal,” Cale said, “in a place like Redsprin, a little gold can walk a long road. A fortnight’s salary in the city would be three month’s salary here. You have more than enough. In all likelihood, the innkeeper would feel he had struck an excellent bargain with a single sovereign.”

            Masly made a face.

            Cale wasn’t even looking at him, yet Cale still shrugged and amended, “Two sovereigns.”

            “Better,” Masly said.

            “Thank you.”

            They watched Hamal.

            Hamal reached up and rubbed the top of his head. He had taken off his knit cap, and his hair felt rumpled beneath his fingers. After thinking about things for a while, he asked, “Can I have four sovereigns?”

            Cale’s head cocked to the side. “That is twice the amount Masly and I recommend. Why have you picked that number?”

            “Well, she’s watching, isn’t she?”

            They all turned and looked at the little girl in the corner. She was, indeed, watching.

            “She’s just a child,” Hamal said. “I don’t know all that can be known about children, but I think it’s easy for them to start thinking things that aren’t true. I want her to think good thoughts instead. If I give the innkeeper only two sovereigns, she will think she’s worth only two sovereigns. Well, that’s not right, is it? Two sovereigns would do it, but she needs to think better than what the innkeeper would demand. She doesn’t have parents. She’s alone… She needs to think better than just two sovereigns.”

            At a table near the door, men started shouting at one another. The innkeeper roared a threat at them and started stomping their direction. The shouting instantly quieted, and every man at the table seemed to shrink down as the massive innkeeper drew closer.  

            “The number isn’t important,” Hamal insisted. “It just needs to be more than the innkeeper says.”

            Gregory scribbled madly in his notebook.

            Rhyan stared at Hamal. “How did you manage to survive for hundreds of years on your own? How are you older than I am?”

            Hamal frowned. “I wasn’t on my own. And I’m seventeen.”

            Cale smiled. “Of course you are. Your bones tell you so.”

            “They do.”

            “Of that I have no doubt. Very well, Sage. You will have the amount you desire. And I won’t tell you to spend it wisely, because I know you will.”

            Hamal always let Cale handle the money. He felt this was very wise of him. Discreetly, the seer retrieved four coins from the purse he kept on his person and, beneath the table’s edge, slipped the coins into Hamal’s waiting hand.

            “Here you are. I suggest you wait for an hour or two for the crowd to dissipate.”

            “Dissipate?”

            “Grow smaller.”

            “But I don’t want to lose her.”

            “Hamal, she’s been living at the inn for several months. You heard the innkeeper. I don’t think she will suddenly wander off in an hour.”

            “But, Cale…”

            The seer held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It is up to you, of course. Do as you like. I won’t argue with wisdom.”

            Lord Rhyan scowled. “Is this a good decision? Are we certain of this course? Sending Hamal, I mean. Forgive me, but you must admit, this is a little like sending a rabbit into a fox den.”

            “But a very wise rabbit,” Masly said. “He’s wily.”

            Hamal gripped the coins and grinned. “Tell me what to say, Cale. I don’t know what to say.”

            Cale gave him some ideas, and Hamal squirmed off the bench and weaved around the tables to where the innkeeper stood. Rosy’s gaze followed Hamal’s movements. She sat with the bucket in her lap as she shoved food she had picked up off the floor into her mouth.

            The innkeeper saw Hamal coming and muttered something that made everyone around him laugh. “How can I help you, boy?”

            The top of Hamal’s head barely came to the center of the innkeeper’s chest. Taking a deep breath, Hamal said, “You don’t have to look after Rosy anymore. I’m going to take her with me.”

            The innkeeper frowned. “Who?”

            “The child you call Rose.” Hamal pointed at the girl in the corner. Her hand had stopped halfway to her mouth. She looked as stiff as a stone wall. “Her. I know you have been looking after her, and I am going to cover the cost of her care. You won’t need to look after her anymore.”

            “Rose, eh?” The innkeeper glanced at the men at the table and then, concealing a grin, reached up and rubbed his jaw. “She’s been work. Hard work. She’s sickly, you know. Can’t earn her own keep.”

            “I understand,” Hamal said politely.

            “I put two kip in her easy.”

            “Kip? What’s that? Is that like sovereigns?”

            The innkeeper looked at Hamal as if he—Hamal—had left his mind back at the table. “Yes. Like sovereigns.”

            A few of the men began to snicker.

            “Thank you for explaining,” Hamal said. “How much is two kip in sovereigns?”

            More snickers.

            “Two,” the innkeeper said, drawing out the word. He stared down at Hamal and, speaking slowly and with strong pronunciation, explained, “Kips are sovereigns. The king’s money, used for buying and selling things.”

            “Well, here are four kip for you.” Hamal held out the coins. “Four, not two.”

            The large man’s hand appeared, and the coins clinked in his palm.

            At the sight of all that gold, the laughter cut off. Hamal felt the change in the room and glanced around.

            No one said anything, so he said, nodding toward the innkeeper’s hand, “That should cover all your hard work.”

            The innkeeper’s mouth worked for half a minute before words came out. “Done. Thank you.” A strange look passed over his face. “Sir.”

            Cale had spoken to Hamal about what he should ask for—certain things they would need for a little girl who had been living on the floor and eating food scraps. “I need a clean washtub delivered up to our room. You know, one for bathing in. And clean towels too. And another bed for her. And whatever she has—shoes and a coat and other things. Oh! And I need another bowl of whatever stew that was. That was good. Rosy is going to eat like a real person instead of off the floor.”

            “Whatever you require,” the innkeeper said agreeably.

            Hamal grinned. “Yes, I know.”

            Rosy didn’t want to go upstairs. She didn’t even want to leave her corner. Not at first.

            Hamal had to coax her, speaking with great kindness and slowness, and eventually she allowed him to take her hand and lead her out of the corner and then out of the dining room. She balked again at the base of the stairs. He thought she might be afraid of getting in trouble with the innkeeper, so Hamal crouched down and explained the situation to her again.

            “Rosy,” he said, his hand on her shoulder. “I know the dining room is where you used to live. I know that was your life for a while, but Cale and I—we’re going to take care of you now. You don’t have to stay downstairs anymore because now you’re with us. Do you understand?”

            Large, dark eyes fixed tightly on his face. He looked into them and thought about fire. Until they figured out which god she was shadowing—well, perhaps it was good there was no fire just now.

            “Do you understand?” he repeated.

            She did nothing. But when he stood up and gently tugged on her hand, she followed him up the steps and into the room Hamal and Cale planned on sharing that night.

            Cale, however, had changed his mind. “I will stay next door. With Masly and Chestirad.”

            “But why?” Hamal asked. “She’s just a little girl. She’s not scary.”

            “She is an oracle,” Cale replied, as if that would answer all arguments and questions. He hesitated. “I have used my gift with her, Hamal. Forgive me, but you have not seen what I have seen. I will be one room away if you require my assistance.”

            So Cale gathered his things and left. Hamal could hear him and a few of the others speaking quietly out in the hall.

            A short while later, there was a knock on the door, and two men who looked exactly alike carried the items Hamal wanted into the room—a washtub, blankets and somewhat clean towels, and even a small trundle bed. One of the legs was missing, so they’d brought a wooden block to keep everything level. The bed was so small that it resembled a bassinet, but Rosy was small and Hamal thought she would fit comfortably.

            The men left and one returned, carrying a tray with a bowl of stew, a carefully folded napkin, a spoon with a wooden handle, and half a loaf of fresh bread. He hesitated at the door, and at first Hamal thought he might want to help with Rosy. Right as he realized the man was hoping for money, Chestirad happened to step out of the next room and “encouraged” the man to return downstairs.

            Rosy didn’t seem to know how to use a spoon. Instead, she shoved food into her mouth with her fingers, watching Hamal over the bowl’s rim as if she thought he might take the food from her. Her expression and actions didn’t change even after Hamal spoke to her again and again and told her everything would be all right now.

            She doesn’t understand, he thought sadly. She’s safe with us, but she doesn’t know.

            As she cleaned out her bowl, he told her stories about some of his adventures with his grandfather and about a dog named Zayzay, who knew how to count sheep.

            “He truly did!” he said. “He could count up to seven. It was amazing.”

            Rosy stared at him as he talked. And he talked a long time, trying to set her at ease. Twice during his storytelling, the door had opened, and Cale had stuck his head into the room. Twice the seer had departed without a word.

            Rosy didn’t lie down in her bed until nearly four in the morning.

            From his bed against the wall, Hamal could hear her heartbeat—steady but fast, like a nervous little deer’s, and he grieved over the fear he’d felt in her bones. Oh, little child. This place has taught you bad things.

            Lying on his back, hands folded under his head, he waited to close his eyes until he heard her heart slow and knew she had gone to sleep. Finally. How long had it been since she had gotten good sleep in this place? And in a real bed? Although this one was old and falling apart. At least she could sleep tonight in peace and be gone from here tomorrow forever.

            Hamal fell asleep right away, without concern.

            In the quiet room, Rosy slept.

            But her gift did not.

            Hamal opened his eyes to smoky air and sand under his boots. He looked around in surprise. What?

– H –

Author’s note: I really like Lord Rhyan. I may need to write his love story one day. ❤️

🔥 Want to read the chapters early? Join us on Patreon.

Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Eyes of Fire: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

This Is Rose

            Little Rose couldn’t have been more than six. The scrap bucket was almost bigger than she was, and she moved it as if it were an extension of her body. Every piece of food and broken bowl went into the bucket as fast as Hamal could blink, and he realized he was just about to lose her to the corner again.

            “Rosy!” he called, sliding off the bench. He sat down on the floor—close, but not too close, to her.

            She froze, head down, one small hand gripping the bucket’s edge.

            “Rosy, my name is Hamal. I’m a healer,” he said in his kindest voice. “Are you sick? Do you not feel well? I would like to put my hand on your shoulder, if that is all right?”

            It was not all right. The thin shoulder jerked away before he could even get his arm lifted.

            “Wait, Rosy! Don’t go away. I’m not going to hurt you—”

            Her head came up. She stared at him with red eyes.

            Hamal froze, his arm outstretched, his fingers inches from her shoulder.

            The color in her eyes seemed to sway like fire. For a moment, he thought he could see actual flames in her irises, and his mind paused on that point: She has fire in her eyes.

            She blinked.

            Her eyes were brown.

            Hamal nearly reached up to rub his face, but at the last moment, he didn’t, suspecting that if he looked away even for an instant, she would vanish back to her corner. He leaned forward slowly, repeating, “I am a healer. I am going to make you feel better. You don’t need to do anything. I’m not going to hurt you. Just sit there, just like that. Good girl. You’re a very good girl. I can tell.”

            His fingertips touched her shoulder lightly. One little touch.

            Emotion swamped him, to the point that he nearly gasped. The rush was so swift and so strong that he almost pulled his hand away. Her bones were weeping. That’s what it felt like as they told him how all the people she once had known had died or left her without a reason. She was alone now, and she was scared. Her bones couldn’t tell him what she feared, but over and over again, they said she was afraid, she had lost everything, and she was alone. Bones were the history keepers of the body, and that was her history—that she had lost everyone and she was all by herself.

            And her blood was sick.

            He tilted his head as his gift examined her blood and the strange thing growing in her chest, near her heart. A tumor, but an unusual one. Hamal felt like he had stepped into a conversation that had been going on for a long time. Her blood knew about the tumor and knew it shouldn’t be there. It had a lot to say about it. This should not be. Something is wrong. Her blood kept repeating itself.

            What an odd thing, Hamal thought. No wonder the innkeeper said she was sickly.

            As quickly as he could, he removed the growth. It dissolved at the touch of his gift, and he rebuilt the inside of the child’s chest, so her bones and her heart and all the other pieces of her could operate the way they were supposed to. He washed her blood so it could think and act properly, and he also found an old break in her wrist that needed healing. The body had tried to heal by itself, but it had done a poor job. So he fixed the bone too.

            All in all, healing her small body took about one minute. She sat quietly for him the entire time, staring at him.

            “There you are,” he said and pulled his hand away. “Now you will feel better.”

            Not a sound. Just dark eyes that studied him. He decided he must have imagined the fire eyes from before.

            Rosy picked up her bucket and scrambled back to her corner, where she situated herself in the shadows and watched him through the table legs. Hamal stared at her from across the room until his eyes began to sting. They were on a mission for the king. They had a job to do, but how could they possibly leave this child here, in this terrible place with an innkeeper who didn’t care about her? He wanted to tell Rosy’s blood everything was all right now. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be alone anymore.

            He ended up sitting on the floor for twice as long as it had taken to heal her. Then he sighed deeply and returned to the table he shared with his friends.

            As he slid onto the bench, he told the others, “She had a growth in her chest. It was trying to kill her and poison her blood, but she is all better now. She was in a lot of pain. I don’t know for how long.”

            No one said anything.

            Hamal realized how quiet the table was, and he looked up to find his companions watching him. Cale, Masly, Gregory, and Rhyan all stared at him.

            “What is it?” he asked.

            Masly spoke first. “Did you not see what we saw?”

            “With Rosy?” Then he straightened up excitedly. “You mean the fire eyes? Aye, I saw the fire eyes!”

            Gregory reached into one of his many pockets and removed a book, thumbing through the pages.

            Lord Rhyan cleared his throat. “Why would a little child have fire in her eyes? That can happen with a flamemaker, but this child is not a flamemaker. I would have been able to feel her gift, and I did not. A child without fire, yet she somehow has fire in her eyes?” He grimaced. “I have never heard of such a thing, and I would like to think, considering my gift, that I’ve heard of most things involving fire—”

            “Here we are,” Gregory announced and slapped his book on the table, spreading out the pages with his fingers. “The child is a gift called an oracle.”

            Everyone leaned forward.

            Gregory’s book didn’t have any words. It had pictures instead. Staring back at them was a sketch of a beautiful lady with long hair and red eyes. The entire picture was black and white, except for the eyes. The artist had carefully filled them with crimson paint. They looked as if they were made of fire.

            Hamal took a quick breath in surprise. Many years had passed since he’d seen this face, and he wasn’t expecting to see it on this journey, and the sight of it made him smile. “I say, Cale—”

            Gregory didn’t seem to hear him. “This is Hellan,” the reader stated. “She was the last oracle. Two hundred years ago, she helped bring an end to the Barrow Wars.”

            “An oracle,” Masly repeated. His silver eyes narrowed. “I keep discovering gifts I didn’t know existed. It’s quite vexing.” He glanced at Hamal, but there was no malice in his gaze.

            “Yes, sir. It is an incredibly rare gift that does not follow the bloodline. It appears at random, a quality it shares with the seer gift, but unlike the seer gift, the oracle does not simply bypass multiple generations in a row. It is genuinely random. A decision made by the gods.”

            Masly frowned. “You’re certain she isn’t just a thiever? A thiever could deceive this way.”

            A flicker of annoyance went across Gregory’s face, but quickly his expression returned to one of calm. “Yes, sir. With the exception of the flamemaker gift, the oracle is the only gift that produces color saturation in the eyes to the extent that the irises appear to be made of fire. It is not actual fire, as it would be with flamemakers, but it has the appearance of fire. The oracle is related to the seer gift. It is a type of seer, but its realm is vastly different. With only one exception, all Court Gifts are marked by their eyes. The seer has silver. The prophet has gold.” He paused. “And the oracle, also a Court Gift, has fire—but only when the gift is in operation.”

            “What’s the possibility we would walk into an inn in a miserable town in the North Territory and find one of the Court Gifts?” Rhyan murmured.

            Gregory, who knew many things, replied, “None. The gift is ridiculously rare—even more so than that of sage. Every historian who has studied the gifts in depth has an opinion on oracles, but their rarity is not questioned. In fact, they all agree that the oracle gift is impossible to find.”

            “Well,” Masly said, “you’re saying we found one, so impossible seems like a strong word.”

            Again, faint annoyance twitched through Gregory’s expression. He bowed his head politely. “They say it is impossible to find—unless one is meant to find it. If an oracle stumbles across your path, it is purposefully done. It is the will of the gods.”

            “Lovely,” Lord Rhyan muttered and sat back on the bench. “Just what we need on this venture. An interfering god.”

            Gregory smiled slightly as delight filled his eyes. “An interfering god is not always a detriment.” He flipped to the next page in his book of pictures.

            When he saw yet another familiar face staring back at him, Hamal started laughing. “You brought my grandfather on the trip with us! I didn’t realize you were going to bring him—who else do you have hidden in the folds of your cloak?”

            Though his eyes still twinkled, Gregory did not laugh. “Your grandfather acted as a guide for Hellan, the last oracle. He escorted her to our city, where she played a significant role in stopping the Barrow Wars. Oracles require wisdom because their gift enables them to see what the gods or a specific god is doing. They are then able to mirror that god’s actions. It is vital for the oracle to mirror a god who is interested in the welfare of men.” Gregory’s look grew pointed. “Hamal, what do you know about the oracle gift?”

            Again, everyone around the table gave Hamal their attention.  

             “Well,” Hamal said, thinking about it, “I know they’re always girls. And I know she can pick the god she wants to follow. And you’re right—it is very important for an oracle to choose the right god. If you do what the wrong one is doing, it’s bad. Wars and plagues and death—it’s possible for bad gods to do very bad things that hurt people, and the oracle might help them. But if the oracle follows the right god, she can do what the right god is doing, and she can bring life instead of death. If you’re an oracle, you have to know who the right god is.”

            “Which is why your grandfather supported Hellan and participated with her gift,” Gregory said, nodding in affirmation. “He gave her wisdom. He was her wisdom, in a sense.”

            The only born nobleman among them, Rhyan leaned back on the bench and gave the girl in the corner another brief look. He didn’t sound pleased as he said, “We can’t overlook the presence of an oracle, especially not when we’re here on the king’s behalf. We’ll have to turn around and take her back to the city.”

            No one answered. Hamal looked at the others’ faces and decided they all thought Rhyan was right, but they didn’t like it.

            Masly glanced through the room. In a low voice, he said, “A lot of learning a little girl would get in a place like this. And none of it good. If this place teaches this child about a god, it surely would not be a god we desire in King’s Barrow.”

            “She’s afraid,” Hamal said. “I’ve never seen the movements of gods, but I imagine it could be scary. Especially if you were all alone and needed wisdom and didn’t have any. She’s terrified. Her bones are all marked up with her fears.”

            “We have to take her to the king,” Rhyan repeated.

            “We are on a specific timeline,” Cale answered. “Oracle or not, I don’t believe Cedrick would have us turn around and go home.”

            “We could take her with us,” Hamal suggested.

            All four heads swung toward him.

            “Hamal,” Cale began. “You know where we’re going. You know what we are likely to confront when we get there. It is no place for a little girl, even if she has a powerful gift.”

            Rhyan agreed. “We can’t leave her here, but neither can we take her to the coast. I have no desire to give the king bad news about an oracle. Yes, Sire, we found one, but we accidentally dropped her down a hole in the ground.”

            “Well, we don’t have to take her all the way into the mine,” Hamal said.

            “Lower your voice,” Masly ordered, voice sharp.  

            Hamal did as he was told, this time whispering, “We don’t have to take her all the way into that one place. We could just take her to a better place, and she could wait for us there. This is a bad place. We can’t leave a god’s oracle in a place like this, so maybe we can just leave her at a different place instead.”

            Cale studied Hamal for a long time.

            Hamal began to twitch on the bench.

            Eventually Cale sighed and said, “Very well,” which drew quick looks from the other three men. Looks he ignored. “If that is wisdom. But I foresee that our gracious host will smell the scent of gold and refuse to part with the girl immediately. He will demand a price.”

            A moment passed as Hamal tried to figure out what Cale meant.

            Rhyan muttered a word Hamal had never said in his life. The lord glared at the innkeeper, who stood laughing with a table of patrons on the other side of the room.

            The innkeeper wanted money? Why did he want money for Rosy? “But she’s healed now. He doesn’t need money for her anymore.”

            “He will call it compensation due to a lack of coin and being forced to care for her himself.” Cale looked at Hamal steadily. “The king gave you a purse for this journey. How much will wisdom offer a cruel man to compensate for the care—the obviously poor care—he has given this child?”

            Hamal considered the situation with care, thinking about gods and his grandfather and Hellan, who had once knitted him a sweater and told him how handsome he looked. He wore the sweater every winter for seventy years (he wasn’t certain, but he thought it was that long) and only gave it up when the elbows were gone and a mouse used it for a nest.

            But more than those things, Hamal thought about something Gregory had not said.

            Oracles appeared only in times of war. How was this a time of war? King’s Barrow was at peace.

            I don’t understand, he thought, looking over at Rosy.

            She stared at him.

            In the shadows, he saw two pools of flame, flickering.

– H –

Author’s note: Happy Independence Day! 250 years! 🎉

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Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Eyes of Fire: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A Bit Like Looking at Hamal

            The king had told Cale to bring anyone he wanted. So Cale did.

            Lord Rhyan was a flamemaker—a bored flamemaker, Cale told Hamal in private, though why that was important for this venture Hamal didn’t know. They were going to arrest a bad man who could kill flamemakers with fire, but even after the situation was thoroughly explained to him, Lord Rhyan eagerly accepted the chance to be a member of Cale’s team.

            Chestirad and Ermond were flamemakers too, but they also happened to be something Rhyan was not: seasoned soldiers. Every night around the campfire, Chestirad polished his sword and what seemed to be a dozen knives he carried somewhere on his person. The only time Hamal saw the knives was at night around the campfire.

            Ermond, meanwhile, was a brooding sort of fellow who liked poetry and smoked a long, thin pipe called a ballister. Apparently, it was something rich people liked to do in Dasken. Just a few days into their journey, Hamal knew more than he wished about Ermond and a woman named Nallia who, by all accounts, seemed to like men who read poetry and smoked skinny pipes.

            Will Chiodo was a charter. This meant he could read the earth the way Hamal could read a person’s bones. Will had brought his dog with him—a surprisingly large, sandy-colored wolf pup whose fangs were visible even when her mouth was closed. Hamal, who liked dogs, thought it was funny how most of the men in their party pretended the wolf wasn’t there and became very quiet whenever she got up and moved around.

            “It’s a sand wolf,” Cale explained to Lord Rhyan one night beneath the stars.

            “By the gods, how did a charter acquire a sand wolf?” Rhyan exclaimed.

            “Cale gave her to him,” Hamal replied. “When we were in the East Territory a few weeks ago, he found the puppy in the ravine and gave her to Will as a present.”

            Rhyan’s brows lifted, and he made a strange noise in the back of his throat. Staring at Cale, he said, “You found a wolf on a piece of land commonly believed to be haunted, and you took the wolf and gave it to someone? As a gift?”

            “The wolf is a girl,” Hamal said. “Her name is Mercy.” Will had given her a feeler name.

            “Yes,” Cale answered. “I did give the wolf as a gift.”

            He looked at Rhyan, who cleared his throat and eventually said, “Ah,” then directed the conversation along a different route.

            Gregory Almes was a reader and official recorder for the king. The throne required a reader to document their journey; this was standard practice when the king’s business took place outside the city. Gregory spent most of his days with a pencil and a notebook in his hands. Even in the saddle, he was constantly writing. The king would receive Gregory’s report when they returned to the city.

            Hainn and Vincent were weathermakers. Hainn was quiet, barely saying a word unless he was asked a direct question, while Vincent loved water. Something about him was a little different, and Hamal couldn’t tell what it was. The way he moved? The way he watched the land around him? Hamal didn’t know, but after a while, he noticed that Vincent constantly had a waterskin in his hands. All the time. He drank more water than anyone else in their party. As the days passed, Hamal began to wonder if Vincent needed someone to heal him—it was a lot of water. The man seemed to have trouble sleeping. He was awake every time Hamal opened his eyes at night, except for the night they made camp next to a stream. That night, Vincent slept like a toddler who had done nothing that day but run.

            Gild, a healer, had four sons and three daughters with his weathermaker wife.

            Kolling was an archer. She journeyed by herself during the day and, every night, appeared at sunset with dinner hanging off her saddle.

            And the last member of their party was Masly Hawl. The seer who had kidnapped the king’s brother.

            “Anyone I want,” Cale said.

            The king had recently allowed Masly to move back to his house under careful guard. Masly lived there with a handful of the king’s soldiers and a court-assigned servant named Reckoning, a feeler who didn’t smile very much.

            When Cale told the king he wanted Masly to accompany them, the king had stared down his long nose at Cale and eventually said, “Very well. I don’t make a habit of arguing with seers.”

            Which Hamal didn’t understand at all, because Cedrick argued with Cale all the time. Sometimes they even bickered back and forth like brothers who had very good manners.

            So, Masly went with them.

            It was an interesting mix of people, to be sure.

            Toward the end of their eighth day on the road, they came to a small town called Redsprin.

            Even before they passed through the gate, Hamal began to suspect this town didn’t have any feelers. He was a healer, but even he could sense that something wasn’t right about this place. There weren’t any streets—just muddy tracks that tried to swallow wagon wheels and people’s boots. Residents waded through the muck as if they didn’t see it anymore, and no one was wearing clean clothes. Everyone Hamal saw, even the handful of children he spotted playing in a questionable alley, had an obvious weapon strapped somewhere on their body.

            As Cale’s party traveled deeper into the dirty little town, it was like somebody had blown a trumpet. Everything stopped. People turned and stared. And then they started frowning, especially at Cale and Masly.

            Hamal leaned sideways in the saddle and, in as quiet a voice as possible, whispered to Cale, “Why are we staying here again?”

            “Thieves,” Cale replied, also quiet. “This area of the country is notorious for theft. Highwaymen, mostly. Or armed men hiding in the trees. I would not typically wish to travel through this land, but it is the most direct route to our destination. The town, at least, offers a small amount of protection against external forces.” His eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. “A small amount of protection.”

            Hamal suspected he knew what Cale was sensing—a town without feelers. When a town did not have feelers, it felt different than other places. If feelers couldn’t live there, something inside the town needed to be healed—and as quickly as possible, because it was sick.

            The town had two inns situated around the muddy center square, and after a quick conversation between Cale and Masly, they chose the inn on the right. It was called Mourning Dove, a name that seemed sadly fitting. The inside of the inn was cleaner than the outside, but the windows were small and there weren’t many lamps to keep out the night. At least the main room was warm. A fire spit and crackled on a hearth that was built like a large triangle in the corner.

            Cale’s party took every available room on the inn’s second floor, and once that was done, they returned to the dining room for supper. Five of them—Hamal, Cale, Gregory the reader, Masly, and Lord Rhyan—sat together in a large booth in the back of the room. Hamal had learned that his friend Cale liked to watch things from the back, and he assumed Masly was the same way.

            The venison stew was good, better than Hamal expected, given the state of the town. Some of the others seemed a bit hesitant, however. Lord Rhyan made a face and then ate only the bread, and Gregory pretended to eat but, in the end, only poked around the bowl with his spoon.

            Hamal was halfway done with his meal when one of the customers dropped a dish. The plate hit the floor and shattered, pieces splintering. The other customers roared with laughter, and people lifted their drinks to cheer the chaos.

            Before the broken pieces had stopped moving, a small dark form raced out of a corner and began throwing them in a bucket.

            Hamal squinted, trying to see through the shadows. Was that a child?

            The broken shards and chunks of food went into the bucket, and then the small form fled back to the corner, where it sat in the darkness opposite the fireplace and picked through the bucket, choosing bits of things that it shoved into its mouth.

            It was a child. A girl, Hamal thought, but he couldn’t quite tell from where he was sitting. Was this her job—to clean the floor when someone dropped a dish? Frowning, he turned back to the table and discovered he was not the only one whose interest the child had captured. Cale and Masly both stared toward the corner where the little girl sat, nearly invisible in the shadows.

            “I have no idea what that is,” Masly said, his soft, boyish voice barely audible above the noise of the dining room.

            “Prophetic in nature,” Cale said.

            It was like he and Masly had been having a private conversation and only now did they feel it necessary to speak out loud.

            “In nature, yes,” Masly replied, “but not the prophetic gift itself. Obviously. Her eyes would give her away, and not even the master of this inn would dare treat a prophet-child in this fashion.” He frowned toward the innkeeper as the large man laughed uproariously at a nearby table.

            Oh, Hamal realized. They’re talking about her gift. He watched them frown, and then he glanced over at Gregory, who was writing things down again, and Lord Rhyan, who was twisting around on the bench and trying to see what everyone was talking about.

            Masly slowly said, “Whatever her gift is, it’s a bit like looking at Hamal for the first time.”

            Cale chuckled as if Masly had told a joke.

            “Looking at me? What does that mean?” Hamal asked. He was a healer, not a prophet.

            Neither seer seemed to hear him.

            The innkeeper walked by, and Lord Rhyan reached out and snagged a corner of his sleeve. The man was as tall and wide as a dining table set on end.

            “Your pardon,” Rhyan said politely. He nodded toward the child. “Who is that little boy in the corner?”

            The innkeeper followed his look. “Oh, that? That’s Rose. That’s what we call her. The little thing doesn’t speak. A thiever dropped her off here last year and left some coin for her, but then he never come back, and coin run out, and she’s been sickly ever since.”

            “Don’t you have healers in Redsprin, sir?” Hamal asked.

            The innkeeper’s dark gaze turned to him. “The coin run out,” he repeated. “Healers don’t work for no coin.”

            “Some of them do,” Hamal said.

            “What is her gift?” Masly asked.

            The innkeeper shrugged and looked toward another table whose occupants were laughing. “Don’t rightly know. The child is odd.” He tapped his forehead. “Up here. She hasn’t shown no signs of a gift since she came. Naturally, that was one of the first questions I asked that thiever, but he didn’t know either. Said he found her out on the road.” The innkeeper harrumphed. “Of course he did. Thievers is always honest, you know.” He laughed loudly.

            “Didn’t you ask her what her gift was?” Hamal asked.

            The large man growled, “She don’t talk. Not a word.”

            After the innkeeper had stomped away, Rhyan lowered his voice and said to the rest of them, “I daresay we might get a better night’s sleep out in the woods, despite the threat of thieves.”

            “Might be true,” Masly muttered.

            But he and Cale looked back to the child in the corner.

            “What do you see?” Hamal asked, bumping Cale’s arm with his shoulder.

            “She’s peculiar,” Cale replied.

            “What does that mean?”

            “I’m not sure I could describe it to you. It is more of a sense than a sight. I can see nothing about this child clearly.”

            Masly agreed with a nod. “Yes, and that’s strange too. I should be able to see something, but her gift hides her. Whatever it is.”

            Gregory’s pencil scratched the page. He made notes as quickly as he could.

            Blowing out his breath in a hot sigh, Rhyan rolled his eyes and straightened up on the bench. “Gentlemen, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is indecision.”

            Hamal believed it. Rhyan was a flamemaker.

            As they all knew he was a flamemaker, perhaps they should have been expecting it, but they still jumped as Rhyan took hold of Hamal’s bowl and threw it on the floor. The porcelain shattered, the pieces bouncing everywhere. Just as they had the first time, other customers laughed, glasses raised.

            “If we are all so curious,” Rhyan said, “let’s meet her, shall we?”

– H –

Author’s note: We just got back from housesitting for my parents. While at their house, my nearly 2-year-old discovered that playing in toilets is a load of fun and so is stripping off his diaper and peeing on the kitchen floor as close to Mommy’s leg as possible. We had…an adventure. 😅

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Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Eyes of Fire: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Rumors of Ghosts

            Two days later, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hamal and Cale took a carriage across the city and entered the district of West Barrow, home to most of the city’s scholars and historians. The people who liked to study things lived in this district. Gregory Almes, one of Hamal’s reader friends, had a house here on Lettering Street.

            The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a house so far west that it nestled within the shadow of the city wall. Like many houses in West Barrow, this house looked fairly plain. Most people didn’t have fancy houses here because they spent their money on other things, like books and education and travel.

            But Hamal did notice one interesting thing about this house.

            “Are they building something?” he asked, peering through the carriage window at the carnage that used to be the front lawn. Five large holes gaped up at the sky: one hole beside the cobbled drive, one next to the rose garden, one against the wall, two others under some trees. The excess dirt had been carefully piled up next to each hole.

            Cale leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at the deep scrapes in the earth. A moment passed as he used his gift. “Experiments,” he said finally.

            “What?”

            “They’re testing the soil.” Cale smiled slightly. “Likely for the third or fourth time, I’d imagine.”

            Hamal did not understand why Cale thought this was funny. “Testing the soil? You mean, with an alchemist? Why are they testing the soil with an alchemist?”

            “The Elortons explore caves, Hamal. That is their occupation. They are interested in the earth—all manner of soil and rocks and what can be found under the surface. I imagine their natural interest has not abated, despite their recent setbacks.”

            Recent setbacks. An interesting way to describe what had happened with Lord Masgrave and his dragons. Cale seemed to think the trauma the siblings had endured had already lifted. Hamal smiled, pleased with his friend’s opinion. Good.

            A servant met them on the drive. He was tall and thin, and his lips barely moved as he said, “This way, sirs.”  

            He took Hamal and Cale up the stone steps and into the house, where there was even more dirt—dirt inside the house, in piles that appeared to be just as carefully arranged as the piles outside, only smaller.

            “Oh,” Hamal said in surprise.

            The servant sighed. “Yes,” he stated in a completely different tone. “Yes, I know. There’s no stopping them, and since their return three weeks ago, it’s been particularly bad. I have never—” His voice cracked to a halt as his eyes widened. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. In the first voice, the one that sounded very formal, he continued, “This way, sirs. His lordship is in the library.”

            The servant led them down a long hallway lined with bookcases. There were no books on these shelves. Instead, they were loaded with rocks. Some were rough and dark, full of holes. Some were spiky and sharp looking, and some were pretty. Hamal touched a shiny one that was the same color as spring grass. Imagine that—a green rock. They must have found it in a cave.

            The servant stopped in front of a door, and Hamal ran into his back. The man sniffed and pretended the collision hadn’t happened.

            “Sirs,” he said and opened the door.

            The smells of cinnamon tea and old paper followed the door’s movement. So did voices. A woman, talking about the military and an upcoming event—it sounded like a wedding—that involved someone in the military, and a man, who thought there would be plenty of time for everyone to arrive. Hamal saw more bookcases and more rocks, but there were actual books here, and he realized the large room was a library. Though he couldn’t see the speakers yet, he began to sense the presence of another healer.

            “She’s here!” he whispered excitedly to Cale.

            “Yes,” the seer replied.

            They walked down three aisles of bookcases filled with books that looked as old as the kingdom. As they approached the end of the third row, the servant loudly cleared his throat, and the familiar voices cut off.

            “Jon,” the woman called. “Are they here?”

            “Yes, mistress,” the servant replied.

            Hamal walked around the corner and stopped, grinning at the scene before him.

            Saviana Elorton, sitting on Lieutenant Com Reardon’s lap.

            “Why, Hamal,” she said and didn’t bother to pull her arms from around Com’s neck. She wouldn’t be embarrassed, he knew. Not this one. She didn’t know what embarrassment was, and she never cared what other people thought. “When I heard you were coming, I rearranged my schedule.”

            Com laughed at her. “You have a schedule?”

            “Quiet, darling. It is good to see you again, Hamal. Where is your silver-eyed friend? Did you remember to bring him too?”

            Cale stepped up next to Hamal, and Savi’s smile widened. “Oh, there you are, my lord. Forgive me. I didn’t know you were coming.”

            Hamal highly doubted that was true. He chuckled, sensing the presence of a joke even if he didn’t fully understand it.

            Savi untangled her arms and stood from the couch, brushing off her dress in a manner that made Hamal think of digs and dust and the exploration of old places, even though her dress appeared perfectly clean and presentable. She had a practiced hand.

            “I fear I must apologize on behalf of my brother, sir,” she said to Cale. “After receiving your letter yesterday, he vanished somewhere within the worded catacombs—” She gestured toward the library they stood in. “—and we haven’t been able to find him. I fear he is gone forever.”

            From somewhere deeper within the library, a man’s voice came floating through the dust. “Not true.”

            “We fear we may never see him again,” Savi continued in the same friendly tone.

            “No, we don’t.” Garrick Elorton, Savi’s brother and leader of their underground expeditions, stepped around an overloaded bookcase. Dust as thick as white powder clung to the shoulder of his dark tunic, and cobwebs had pasted themselves to his hair. In one hand he held an old scroll, the paper darkening with age, and in the other hand he clutched a black book. Also old, also dusty. “As always, thank you, Saviana, for your surge of creative details.”  

            He turned to Cale and lifted the scroll. “I found the map, Commander. If you will follow me over to the table, I can show you everything you need to know about the Dursen Head Mine.”

            Garrick led them to the long table next to the couch where Saviana and Com had been sitting. The table had been recently cleaned off, Hamal thought, judging by the papers and books stacked underneath it. Garrick set the black book off to the side and then rolled out the map, smoothing it down with both hands.

            “This is Dursen Head,” he said. “Two different renderings, as you can see. The one on the left is a copy of the original map drafted by a charter about nine hundred years ago. The one on the right is a more current map.”

            “How old?” Cale asked.

            “Ninety-nine years,” Garrick replied and tapped the scroll’s right side. “This is a charter’s work as well, so you can be certain of what you see.”

            Hamal studied the map and all the dark lines, shaded areas, town names, and other features carefully drawn out or labeled with old ink. The map was highly detailed concerning the mine itself. The charter had marked each shaft and how it turned through the soil and stones. In the eight hundred years between drawings, the mine appeared to have grown considerably. It was a single shaft on the left side of the paper but more like a town of passages on the right. Charters knew the earth; it spoke to them, and their maps were always dependable.

            Cale was already nodding. “They dug beneath the sea.”

            “They did. Most of the mine lays hidden beneath the soil, close to the shore but not quite touching it. This arm here, however, extends out beneath the water.” Garrick traced the route with a calloused finger. “A few hundred years ago, some believed the e’nethaine knew more about Dursen Head than we landers did.” He grinned like this was a ridiculous idea.

            Hamal didn’t think anything about the e’nethaine was ridiculous, and he knew Cale thought so as well. But neither of them tried to correct Garrick’s opinion.

            Instead, Cale said, “Some say the mine is haunted. What do you say?”

            Garrick’s smile hesitated. He seemed to notice the dust on his sleeve for the first time because he reached up and absently rubbed at his shoulder. “We are familiar with rumors of ghosts, my lord. That’s fairly standard in our business—digging up the earth, discovering artifacts and unknown territory buried under cities and towns and the like. Plenty of ghost stories. But here?” He swiped his fingertip across the northern coastline. “This is a different kind of ghost story. You’d almost think the e’nethaine were involved somehow.”

            I knew it, Hamal thought.

            Garrick kept speaking. “I have never been to Dursen Head myself, but Savi and I have heard a few of the stories and they’re…unique.”

            Cale frowned at Garrick. “How so?”

            Garrick looked over at his sister, sitting on the arm of the couch with the lieutenant on the cushion next to her.

            Savi wrinkled her nose like the entire notion of ghosts was distasteful to her. “Here is an example. A hundred years ago, Tome Dranda the charter—”

            Garrick pointed toward the right side of the map.

            “—scanned the mine to verify his map, and he insisted that the mine’s register was not correct. The register reported twenty-three miners in a certain shaft that day, but the charter counted twenty-seven. Four extra men, walking about.”

            E’nethaine, Hamal thought.

            “These ‘ghosts’ have weight,” Saviana continued. “Enough weight that a charter can sense their steps on the earth and assume they are men. But the more interesting stories involving the mine also involve healers.”

            She gave Cale an odd look. “You have heard about the Healer’s Treasure, I assume?”

            “I have.”

            For some reason, Saviana looked relieved. “Then you know that according to the legend, the gods hid some kind of massive treasure in the earth at Dursen Head, and only a healer can find it. Healers have been trying to discover it for centuries. Interestingly, it is like the mine itself—or perhaps whatever dwells in the mine—tries to keep them from finding it. This is where the ghost stories become more interesting. If anything goes missing, is tampered with, or is broken in the mine, that thing will certainly belong to a healer and not any other gift. Accidents happen, of course—but the strange things, the truly bizarre stories, always involve healers.” Saviana shrugged. “If the mine is truly haunted the way people say, it would seem that whatever lives there doesn’t like healers.”

            “Interesting,” Cale murmured. He lowered his gaze back to the map but, after a moment, looked at Hamal across the table. “What is your opinion, Hamal? Why would the e’nethaine prefer a healer’s belongings to those of anyone else?”

            Garrick’s eyes lit up like he was intrigued.

            Saviana looked serious.

            Com’s brows lowered in a frown.

            Hamal rubbed the top of his head as he considered the question. His mind touched upon the e’nethaine and landers and gods and how the world was made, and eventually he said, “They wouldn’t. The e’nethaine have their own healers. Why would they care about ours?”

            “Do you think the legend is true?” Cale asked. “That the treasure exists and is meant for a healer?”

            “Well, yes. My grandfather told me about it.”

            “Ah.” Cale’s silver gaze grew sharp. “And what did Shel Galen have to say?”

            “Just that there’s a treasure there, and eventually the right healer will find it.”

            Everyone looked at him.

            “Did he say you would find it?” Cale asked.

            Hamal laughed. But no one else did.

            “No, he didn’t say I would find it,” Hamal answered. “But he did mention something about time and how the treasure could grow, like it was alive.” He reached up and rubbed the top of his head. “I used to think that all secret treasures weren’t alive—like gold. Gold isn’t alive. It can’t grow like a person or an animal or a plant. But this treasure can grow. Shel said that if it had been found early, it would have been smaller, but because it still hasn’t been found, it is going to be bigger.”

            Everyone was still looking at him.

            “I have no idea what that means,” Saviana said.

            “Neither do I!” Hamal exclaimed. “A treasure that grows? My grandfather is full of secrets.”

            Several hours later, Cale leaned back on the carriage seat and looked at Hamal across the way. “You know, Hamal, if a treasure does exist somewhere within the Dursen Head Mine, you are the healer who will find it. You understand this, do you not?”

            Hamal laughed. “Do you think I’m like Savi and her brother? Hunting for treasures hidden in secret places? I’m not a treasure hunter, Cale.”

            Cale didn’t even smile. “Perhaps you should be, in this case.”

            Hamal felt the weight of his friend’s gaze. Every healer knew the story of the Dursen Head Mine, and Savi was right—many, many healers had gone there trying to find the secret treasure. Some entered the mine legally and some did not. The mine had had several owners through the centuries, and only a few of them allowed healers to search for the treasure.

            Cale abruptly leaned forward and called the driver’s name. “Percy, turn north on Harbor Street.”

            “Yes, sir,” came the muffled reply.

            Harbor Street would not take them back to Cale’s house, to the palace, or to anywhere else they might need to go before leaving the city.

            “Where are we going?” Hamal asked.

            The intensity eased in the seer’s gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “The king said I could have anyone I wanted for this venture. Well—I have thought of someone I want.”

– H –

Author’s note: Do you remember Savi and Com from The Healer Who Didn’t Remember? I really enjoy their little love story. ❤️

🔥 Want to read the chapters early? Join us on Patreon.

Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.           

Eyes of Fire: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Body at the Palace

            The king wasn’t a handsome man, and Hamal liked him more because of it. The king knew he wasn’t handsome, but he didn’t care. You didn’t have to be his friend. You didn’t have to tell him lies to get him to like you. He simply was what he was, and Hamal could appreciate a man who was content with what the gods had assigned to him.

            Despite the late hour, the king appeared wide awake. Steam rose from the black mug in his hand, and as Hamal and Cale entered the study, he lifted the mug in greeting.

            “Your majesty.”

            Cale bowed his head, and Hamal hurried to do the same.

            The king took a sip from the mug before asking, “First thoughts?”

            This was how it always began. The king would ask Cale, a seer, what he saw before telling them why they had been summoned. It was almost like a game, Hamal thought. King Cedrick and Cale were friends, and Hamal was surprised every time the king revealed he liked playing games with his friends. Cedrick was a stern man who did not smile very often. Player of games was not what Hamal thought just by looking at him.

            The room dropped into quiet as Cale used his gift. His eyes, the same color as a sword blade, stayed on the king. He blinked once, then again, as if this helped him sort the different images rolling through his mind.

            Finally he said, “There’s a body. It was found at some distance from here and escorted to the palace under guard.”

            Cedrick smiled slightly, with just one corner of his mouth.

            A moment passed in silence. Wait, Hamal thought. Soldiers were guarding a dead body? Why would a dead body need to be guarded?

            “And how did he die?” Cedrick asked next.

            Another long pause. Cale frowned. “He seems to have burned to death.”

            The king’s smile disappeared. He blew out his breath in a huff. “That is what has been suggested, yes.” He turned and set his mug on the desk behind him, then looked at Hamal, his gaze forceful. “But you, Hamal, I trust will not confirm this cause of death.”

            Hamal looked back and forth between the king and Cale. He was not supposed to confirm the cause of death? Just to be certain, he asked, “You want me to tell you something different, your majesty?”

            “I do.”

            “Forgive me, your majesty, but I don’t understand.”

            The king’s brows rose. “Neither do I. Not yet. That’s why both of you are here.”

            Hamal and Cale followed the king and Captain Colbis, the captain of his bodyguard, through the palace to a private room beneath the first floor. Hamal had not been in this area of the palace before, and he looked around with a frown, wondering about the man who had died. What were they just about to see? If someone died in the palace, or anywhere on the palace grounds, the body was kept in a quiet, very clean room connected to the palace infirmary. But not this body. This body had guards, and it was kept in a secret room underground. Hamal tried to think of a reason that would be necessary, but he just felt confused. Why did the king wish to guard a dead body, and then why would he wish to hide this body from others?

            At the end of a long, narrow hallway, they came to a door guarded by two men. Both were flamemakers. Hamal could feel the heat radiating off their bodies.

            The guards bowed to the king, and the man on the right reached back and opened the door.

            Immediately, Cale grimaced and turned his head away as a dark stench rolled out into the hallway. Hamal recognized it right away. He was a healer—he knew what death smelled like. Bodies that had been dead for a long time, bodies that had died recently—he was familiar with these things. Cale and the king hesitated outside the door, but Hamal ducked through it into the mysterious room beyond.

            The room was filled with shadows, especially in the corners where the darkness seemed to pile up. Three tall lamps stood like somber family members around a table in the center of the room and the body that lay upon it. Even from several steps away, Hamal could tell the man had been badly burned.

            But the king wanted a cause of death that did not include fire.

            A strange thing, that request.

            Hamal approached the table carefully, with respect, and set his hand on the dead man’s chest.

            The bones began to speak to him.

            It wasn’t like a conversation, filled with sentences. Bones never spoke in sentences—they spoke in thoughts and short words and quiet ideas that seemed to walk through the healer’s mind. Understanding how to read a person’s bones took time, because the language was so different than regular speech. It was like trying to understand a dream. Hamal listened as the dead man’s bones told him many things.

            Then the blood started in, adding a few words about the man’s family. That was always what the blood wanted to talk about—family and generations and how many children somebody had. This man had no children, and his blood was sad about this.

            Then the bones spoke again.

            “Oh,” Hamal said, straightening up in surprise.

            Instantly other voices broke into the quiet.

            “What is it?” Cale asked.

            “What did you read?” the king said.

            Hamal looked over at them. “This man was surprised when he died. And it was surprise that lasted a long time because it was able to mark his bones. His bones remember it.”

            “What surprised him?” the king asked.

            “That’s a question Cale should answer, your majesty. I don’t know what surprised him. Perhaps it was the fire.”

            The king sighed. He sounded irritable. “So you are confirming the cause of death? He died in a fire?”

            Hamal glanced at the dead man’s face. This poor fellow had clearly died in a fire. Even if there were some other reason the skin would burn like this, that was what his bones said—he burned to death. Why did the king want a different answer?

            “Yes, your majesty,” Hamal said finally. “This man burned to death.”

            That answer was not the one the king wished to hear. Heavy lines appeared between his brows. Colbis stepped closer to speak with him, and as they began a quiet conversation that Hamal didn’t think he was supposed to listen to, he looked away and, slowly—with regret—pulled his hand off the dead man. He had seen many people suffering from injury or disease, and he had seen many people like this, when the suffering was over but not because he had healed them. What a horrible thing, for people to die needlessly. Surely this was not what the gods intended—this kind of pain and sorrow and sadness.

            This man had been dead for seven days. Far beyond the reach of a healer’s gift.

            Hamal became aware of a quiet, prodding sensation on the side of his face. He looked up and found Cale watching him.

            “What else, Hamal?” Cale asked. “I know that look. You only rub your head when something confuses you. What confuses you now?”

            The king’s conversation stopped. Silence filled the room.

            Aware that everyone was looking at him, Hamal pointed at the man’s right arm. “It is strange how this man died. The fire started there. Near his elbow.”

            King Cedrick and Colbis glanced at each other.

            Cale cleared his throat. “So he must have been unconscious when he died. Is that correct? He did not move as the fire approached him.”

            Hamal shook his head. “No, he was conscious. He was awake and tried to put the fire out.” He motioned to Cale. “Your gift might show you what happened. Here. Come touch him.”

            Cale blinked. His silver gaze shot to the dead body. “I’m not going to touch him.”

            “What?” Hamal peered at him. “Oh. Well, what if I put my hand here first, and then you can touch my hand? Is that better?”

            The king and Captain Colbis again traded a glance.

            Cale slowly stepped forward and, with a grimace, set two fingers on the back of Hamal’s hand. He paused but only for a moment before saying, “Hamal, I am not certain this will…”  

            He stopped. His head turned, just a little, and his silver gaze lowered to focus on the body.

            The king and Captain Colbis edged closer.

            His hand beneath Cale’s, Hamal waited a few moments, giving him time. Eventually he asked, “Do you see it? This is where the fire started. It spread from the elbow through the rest of his body. He was awake as the fire happened, but he couldn’t put it out.”

            Cale withdrew his hand. He stared at his fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “Yes,” he said finally and jerked his fingers off of Hamal’s hand. “The fire started on his arm, and he somehow failed to put it out. I cannot see any flames when I look at him. It was fire that was not fire.”

            “Yes!” Hamal agreed. “That’s what I’m trying to say. It was a fire that was not a fire. It didn’t work like a regular fire. Maybe we should talk to a flamemaker and find out more. Is there something that is like fire—but is not fire?”

            Cale was quiet as he thought. He looked over at the captain. “What have you not told us?” Cale always knew things that hadn’t been said out loud.

            “Go ahead,” the king murmured.

            Colbis sighed deeply. He ran his hand over his face and then motioned halfheartedly toward the table. “This is one of my men. Jaldan, his name was. He was part of the team that escorted Darren Ephram to the North Territory to make certain the king’s orders were followed to the letter.”

            Darren Ephram. Hamal knew that name. Darren’s father had illegally “arrested” some of the poor people in South Barrow and made them work in his mine up on the northern coast. One of those people was the husband of Hamal’s dear friend Cally, and another person was a feeler named Steadfast, who worked with Justice Ashby, the new governor of South Barrow. The king was furious with the House of Ephram. He did not take kindly to those who abused his people, especially the poor in his care.

            “I have lost contact with Jaldan’s team,” Captain Colbis stated. “If Jaldan was murdered—if this was murder—I want to know what happened.”

            Cale looked at the captain for a long moment. Hamal wondered what his seer eyes were telling him.

            “Why the guards?” Cale asked at last and nodded toward the door.

            Another sigh. “As impossible as it seems…Jaldan was a flamemaker.”

            Hamal gasped. It sounded loud in the stunned silence.

            “He couldn’t have been a flamemaker,” Cale said. “He burned to death.”

            Colbis nodded. One time. “Exactly. It is impossible, yet that is how he died. You heard Hamal confirm it.”

            In the stillness that followed, Hamal whispered, “No wonder his bones were surprised.”

            “If the House of Ephram has somehow discovered a way to kill flamemakers with fire—” The captain paused. “I want to know about it. I need to know what happened to my men. I sent six of them with Ephram, and four were flamemakers, including Jaldan.”

            The king took a deep breath. “Cale, I want you to put together a team. Make any request of me—take anyone you see you will need. Find out what Ephram is doing. Empty that mine once and for all, and bring the people home. This wicked situation has gone on long enough.”

            Cedrick paused. His stern gaze moved to Hamal. “Take Hamal with you. It is likely you will need him.”

– H –

Author’s note: A flamemaker who died from fire?! What?! 😱 Chapter 2 coming next Friday!

🔥 Want to read the chapters early? Join us on Patreon.

Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.