Chapter 3 – The Choice of Fire

The first thing Altai felt was pain.

It ran through his body in jagged pulses, dragging him out of darkness and forcing his eyes open to a blur of pale ceiling tiles. The world smelled of antiseptic and iron. A steady beeping rang to his right, too rhythmic to be natural, too steady to belong in the ruins of the university.

He tried to move. A sharp groan escaped his throat. His right arm refused to obey him—it was locked, heavy, swaddled in white plaster. His chest was wrapped tight, every breath slicing fire through his ribs. He lay on a bed, thin sheets tangled around him, light filtering weakly through the curtains.

A hospital.

For one fleeting moment he prayed it had all been a dream. The screams, the smoke, Leyla’s lifeless eyes staring past him into the dark—it had to be some nightmare his broken body had invented.

But the cast on his arm told him otherwise. The bruises, the pain, the bandages. His reality had been torn apart.

He remembered the moment the wind sphere slammed into him, crushing his chest. He remembered the laughter of men in sunglasses. He remembered fire—his fire—bursting from him in wings of emerald flame.

And the amulet.

His heart lurched. He jerked upright too quickly and nearly cried out. His left hand clawed across the sheets, then the bedside table, searching. His fingers swept only glass, paper, bandages.

No amulet.

His pulse quickened. He shifted again, ignoring the pain. He searched beneath the pillow, around the mattress. Nothing. Panic swelled. If the amulet was gone, if they had taken it—

The door opened.

Altai froze.

A man stepped inside, calm and composed, his green trench coat brushing against his legs as he crossed the room. His dark hair was tied back loosely, his shirt collar open, his eyes the blue of storm-lit seas. He carried no weapon, only a quiet confidence.

He pulled a chair closer and sat by Altai’s bed. For a moment he said nothing, studying him with the weight of someone who measured everything. Then he spoke.

“You’re awake.”

Altai swallowed hard, throat dry. His voice cracked. “The amulet—where is it?”

The man didn’t flinch. He reached into his coat and drew out the faintly glowing trinket, setting it gently on the bedside table where Altai could see. Its bronze edges shimmered faintly in the hospital light, but the fire that had once erupted from it now slept, silent.

“Safe,” the man said. “Safer than in your hands, for now.”

Altai sagged back against the pillow, a mixture of relief and anger boiling in his chest. “Who are you?”

The man inclined his head. “Marco Valenti. Preservation.”

The name was unfamiliar, but the word—Preservation—clung to his ears.

Altai narrowed his eyes. “Preservation? Then those men… the ones who destroyed the university… they were—”

“Libra.” Marco’s voice was calm, but sharp. “Our enemies. Our shadows. They’ve hunted amulets for centuries.”

Altai turned his face away, pain and rage twisting together. “Why? Why kill them? Why kill everyone?”

Marco leaned back, folding his arms. His voice took on the cadence of someone repeating truths burned into his bones.

“Two organizations, both older than nations. Libra and Preservation. For five centuries we’ve warred in the dark, while kingdoms rose and fell above us.”

He held Altai’s gaze. “Libra seeks one thing—power. To gather every amulet, forge synthetic copies, twist them into weapons. They dream of an army bound to their will, a world ruled from the shadows.”

“And you?” Altai demanded.

“Preservation protects,” Marco answered simply. “Amulets are not toys. They carry the weight of ancient creatures, forces vast enough to remake cities. In the wrong hands, they consume their bearer—or worse, everyone around them. Preservation guards the balance, ensures the amulets rest with those strong enough to wield them.”

Altai shook his head, disbelief and fury surging. “Balance? Protection? My friends are dead. Leyla is dead. You call that protection?”

Marco’s expression tightened, a shadow of sorrow flickering across his features. “Their deaths are the work of Libra. Not us.”

“Then what’s the difference?” Altai spat. “People still die. You fight, they fight—innocents get crushed between you. How are you any better?”

For a long moment Marco said nothing. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lower.

“The difference,” he said, “is why. Libra kills to conquer. Preservation fights to prevent that conquest. We are not saints, Altai. We bleed, we fail, and sometimes we cannot save everyone. But we do not slaughter crowds to hide in smoke. We fight so that humanity has a tomorrow.”

Altai’s chest rose and fell quickly, anger still boiling—but somewhere in him, the words began to wedge themselves into the cracks of his grief.

“The amulet chose you,” Marco continued, nodding toward the trinket on the table. “Do you know what that means?”

Altai glanced at it, then back at Marco. “That I’m cursed?”

Marco almost smiled. “That you’re bound. An amulet and its bearer are inseparable once joined. Only death, or rejection by the amulet itself, can break the bond. That fire you summoned wasn’t mine, or Preservation’s. It was yours. The amulet recognized something in you—a will strong enough to wake it.”

Altai swallowed hard, remembering the heat, the wings, the moment his grief had turned to flame.

“So I’m stuck with it?”

Marco nodded. “And that means Libra will hunt you for the rest of your life. Their soldiers, their beasts, their synthetic creations. Many of their agents can’t control real amulets, so they twist broken ones, corrupted fragments. Dangerous things. But you—” He gestured to Altai’s chest. “You’ve already proven you can wield one. That makes you rare. Valuable. And very, very hunted.”

Altai stared at the ceiling. “Why was it even there? Buried in my university?”

Marco’s eyes darkened. “Decades ago, one of our agents found it. But he vanished after hiding it. Preservation suspects Libra took him, but no proof remains. For years, neither side could trace the amulet’s resting place. Until now.”

Altai felt his stomach twist. So all of this—his friends’ deaths, the fire, the ruin—had begun long before he was born. Centuries of war had simply chosen to spill into his life.

Marco rose from his chair, standing tall. “You have two paths, Altai. Stay here, in Azerbaijan, where Preservation’s reach is weak—and wait for Libra to find you again. Or come with me to Venice. Preservation’s stronghold. There you will have allies, protection… and training.”

Altai stared at him, breathing shallowly.

Venice. A foreign land, far from everything he had known. But what was left for him here? Ashes and graves.

Still, his voice cracked with defiance. “If I go with you… I’ll see him again. The man who killed them. Vlad.”

Marco’s eyes hardened. “Yes. With the amulet in your hands, it’s inevitable. He’ll come for you again.”

Altai’s fists clenched beneath the sheets. His gaze burned, not with tears now but with rage. “Then teach me. Teach me to use it. To fight him. I don’t care if it burns me alive—I’ll never forgive him. I’ll make him pay.”

For the first time, Marco hesitated. He saw not just a broken boy but a fire already kindled. Anger, grief, purpose—all tangled together.

At last, he nodded. “Then you’ll be my student. But know this: the path of fire burns. Once we leave, there is no return.”

He placed a hand lightly on Altai’s shoulder, grounding him. “Rest for now. When you’re strong enough, we go to Venice. There, you’ll learn what it means to bear the weight of fire.”

Marco turned and left the room, trench coat whispering against the doorframe.

Altai lay back, his chest aching, his arm throbbing. Yet inside him something pulsed stronger than pain. Purpose.

He looked to the amulet on the table, its faint glow catching the hospital light.

“I’ll find him again,” Altai whispered to the empty room. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “And next time… I won’t be powerless.”

Outside the window, night stretched across the city. A single star burned bright in the dark sky, solitary yet unyielding. Altai closed his eyes, holding to that faint, guiding light.

The war had chosen him. Now he would choose his place within it.

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