Flames Of Failure

Flames Of Failure
The old library kept rumbling in fire that roared upward, biting through the bricks and the wooden beams of the structure. The fire burned without mercy and the thick black smoke carried the stench of burning paper into air. There was so much heat and the ground was filling up with ash.

Kane Baker and Kivior Thames stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, their faces bathed in the hellish glow. Kane’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white, his bruised ribs screaming with every shallow breath he took. The heat stung his eyes, drying the tears that refused to fall. He could still hear Lina’s final words echoing in his mind—calm, loving, sacrificial. “Go. Live for our children.”

Kivior stood beside him, the ancient spellbook clutched tightly against his chest like a shield. The preacher’s face was a mask of stoic grief, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. No tears. No screams. Only a deep, unbroken silence as he watched the woman he loved burn inside the collapsing structure. Ash rained down softly onto their shoulders, gray and weightless, like the remnants of a life turned to dust.

Neither man moved. The fire crackled and roared, beams crashing inside the library with thunderous booms that shook the ground. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they felt miles away. The world had narrowed to this one terrible moment—the library burning, Lina trapped inside, and the crushing weight of failure pressing down on them like the smoke-filled sky.

Kane’s voice finally broke the silence, raw and hoarse. “We should have been faster.”

Kivior didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the flames, the light dancing across his tearless face. The preacher’s hands tightened around the spellbook until his knuckles cracked. For the first time since Kane had known him, Kivior looked truly broken—not weeping, not raging, but hollow, like something vital had been carved out of him.

The fire continued to consume everything. The roof caved in with a deafening crash, sending a fresh plume of sparks shooting into the night. Kane's throat burned, not just from the smoke, but from the guilt clawing at his chest. Lina had been right behind them. So close. One second faster and she might have made it.

“I’m so sorry we lost her,” Kane whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Kivior finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. Despite what he had lost, he still spoke with unimaginable faith. “She is with the Lord now. She gave her life so we could live. We must honor that.”

Kane nodded, but the words felt empty. The victory they had hoped for—the spellbook, the daggers, the chance to end the curse—tasted like bitter failure. Orishirishi had both blades now. The plague was rising. And Lina was gone.

The two men stood in silence as the library continued to burn, the flames reflecting in their eyes like the death of hope itself.

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Morning light filtered weakly through the blinds of the precinct office, casting pale stripes across Vera Kingsley’s desk. She woke with a start in the chair where she had fallen asleep, her body aching from bruises and exhaustion. The bite on her arm throbbed dully, and her back screamed from where Orishirishi had thrown her against the tree. The room smelled of stale coffee and old paper, the air heavy with the weight of another sleepless night.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. The scroll still lay open on her desk, the warning about the daggers and the plague staring back at her like an accusation. Her mind raced with everything that had happened—the deal, the trap, the explosion at the library.

The phone on her desk rang sharply, jolting her fully awake. She snatched it up.

“Kingsley.”

A deputy’s voice came through, tired but relieved. “Sheriff… Sandra Bullock is home. She turned up safe at her parents’ house this morning. No injuries. Just scared.”

Vera’s breath caught. “She’s… safe?”

“Yes, ma’am. Parents said she wandered in at dawn. Said she doesn’t remember much. Just that she followed a voice.”

Vera hung up slowly, staring at the phone. It had all been a trick. Moriah’s spell had never taken the girl—it was all a trick from Orishirishi to get the second dagger. The realization hit her like a physical blow. She had been played. Manipulated. And now the demoness had both weapons.

The door to her office opened. Kane stepped in, his face still bruised from the night before. He crossed the room without a word and pulled her into a tight embrace. Vera buried her face in his chest, the familiar scent of him—sweat, gun oil, and safety—grounding her for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I let Orishirishi escape the circle. I stepped in. It was my fault. And now… Lina…”

Kane held her tighter, his hand stroking her hair. “Don’t do that. None of this is your fault. You did what you had to do to try and save that little girl. We all did.”

Vera pulled back slightly, eyes glistening. “But Lina… the library… I should have been there.”

Kane shook his head. “We’re all still here. We’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, holding each other. Then Vera asked quietly, “Have you seen Kivior?”

Kane shook his head. “Not yet. He hasn’t come in.”

Vera nodded. “We should check on him. Make sure he’s okay.”

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Kivior sat alone in the corner of the old Carey House, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly in prayer. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew and old wood. Sunlight filtered through the cracked windows, casting long golden beams across the decaying floors. He was not crying. He was not mourning. He was not weeping for the wife he had lost in the flames.

Instead, he prayed. He spoke in heavy tongues; the ancient words gushed out of him with power. His cries echoed within the walls of the house like war cries. Outside, the wind howled and it rattled the windows, shook the tress and sent their leaves skittering across the porch. Kivior grew more intense and did not cease his prayers. He increased the sound of his voice and his words grew more fervent, like a river during a storm.

The wind burst into the house through every crack and crevice, howling like a living thing. Papers and dust swirled around him in a miniature storm. Still, he prayed. Louder. Stronger.

Then a light appeared—brighter than the sun, piercing through the roof and walls as if they weren’t there. It swallowed Kivior completely, bathing him in pure, blinding radiance. The wind howled louder. The house trembled. And in that light, Kivior kept praying.