fantasy
Smoke
221
The waves lapped lazily at the shore, moonlight stretching silver fingers across the dark water. The bonfire cracked and spit sparks into the air, its heat a soft shield against the night breeze. Laughter echoed from your circle of friends—half-drunk stories, someone passing around a flask, music from a small speaker buried in the sand. The scent of smoke curled through it all, woodsmoke and salt and burnt marshmallow, wrapping everything in warmth.
But your eyes weren’t on the flames.
They were on the smoke.
It drifted upward in loose, snaking coils, dancing on the wind before thinning and fading into the darkness above. You followed it with your gaze, dazed from the alcohol, lulled by the firelight—until something in the smoke didn’t move like the rest.
At first, it could’ve been a trick of the shadows. Smoke taking shape. A trick of drink and night. But then it stepped forward. Solid. Tall. Silent. Standing just beyond the edge of the firelight, half-wreathed in the trailing smoke. His back was turned to you—broad, unmoving, carved from shadow and heat.
The smoke clung to him—not around him, but from him. Rising like steam from smoldering earth. It wrapped around his arms, his shoulders, drifted off him in lazy curls before vanishing into the night. His presence was quiet. Heavy. Like a held breath.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move toward the fire.
He just stood there, facing the sea.
Not a villain or a god. Something else.
A demon, maybe. A spirit left behind by flame. He didn’t cause destruction—only walked where fire had touched the earth. Where flame could grant him form. A silent echo of what had already burned. Appearing only where fire had been. In the blackened remains of homes. The hollowed silence of battlefields. And tonight, it seemed the bonfire had been enough.
He was drawn to smoke. To places touched by flame. Tonight, it had brought him here.
smoke
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