The Extra's Transcension

The sky over the village was unusually pale, not cloudy, just… bleached. The light felt sickly, and Ember noticed it first.

She rubbed her temples, eyes narrowed at the horizon. The way the shadows bent around the houses, just slightly wrong. Too long. Too still.

Ash returned from the market path with a small pouch slung over his shoulder, breathless.

"Hey. They're saying old man Dren tried to lock his wife in the smokehouse. Said she wasn't her anymore."

Ember blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. Then three others swore she was a shape-changer, or a witch." He offered a weak smile. "Guess we're not the only ones with a dramatic past."

But she didn't smile.

"Something's moving through them," she said quietly. "Like fog between cracks."

"You think it's the Mindweaver again?"

"I don't think it ever left."

They sat near the small well behind the elder's hall. A few villagers passed by, each offering polite nods, though their eyes lingered longer than usual. Whispering started before the footsteps faded.

Eila joined them moments later, her expression strained. "Someone nailed a black feather to the door of my shop."

"That some sort of threat?" Ash asked.

"Folk superstition," Ember answered. "It means they think someone's been tainted. Watched by a demon."

The three of them fell silent.

This wasn't just fear anymore.

This was directionless dread, the kind the Mindweaver could shape like clay.

Eila folded her arms. "We can't exactly post signs saying 'Hey everyone, an ancient psychic parasite is poisoning your minds, don't listen to the screaming in your head.'"

"No," Ember said. "But we can observe."

Ash glanced at her. "Observe what?"

"Who hears the wrong voices."

They started that afternoon.

Quiet walks, unnoticed eavesdropping. Ash made it a point to help stack lumber with some of the younger men, while Ember offered a hand at the bakery where gossip flowed freer than flour.

Everywhere they went, they heard it:

"He's not my son anymore, something's wrong with him."

"They move at night. I hear them, crawling on the roof."

"Voices in the walls."

"Don't drink from the south well, it remembers."

Ember felt a chill slide down her spine. It wasn't just paranoia.

It was patterned.

Like seeds being planted, slowly blossoming into madness.

"Whispers," she muttered, one night as she and Ash walked back toward the edge of the village. "They're all hearing whispers, but the same kind."

Ash looked up at the sky. "You said it feeds on guilt. But what about fear?"

"Fear's just guilt in disguise sometimes."

"Then why you?" he asked. "Why now?"

Ember hesitated.

Then she answered, because she owed him that.

"I don't think it ever stopped feeding on me," she said. "Even before it took root in this place. It's been… nesting in my nightmares for years. I just didn't know."

Ash's voice was low. "Then this village, ?"

"Isn't the target." She turned to him. "I am. But it's using them to wear me down."

For a moment, his hand brushed hers. Not an accident.

She didn't pull away.

"I'll be your tether," he said simply.

She didn't know how to respond to that.

But it meant something.

It meant more than protection.

The following morning, the village council met in the elder hall. Whispers had grown into arguments. Two children went missing overnight, though they returned by dawn, claiming they were led into the woods by a "song."

"They're testing," Ember said under her breath as they stood near the back of the crowd. "Seeing how far they can push before the village tears itself apart."

And the council, of course, began discussing curfews, isolation, stronger wards. One even suggested expelling "outsiders",casting a glance toward Ember.

Ash tensed.

"Careful," Ember muttered, squeezing his wrist. "They're looking for excuses."

"They want a witch to burn," Eila said from the other side. "I've seen this before in other towns. Fear makes a puppet out of honor."

And then a voice rose from the front.

One of the councilwomen, old and frail, barely spoke above a rasp. But her eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence.

"Everyone here hears the wind speak," she said slowly. "But it's not the wind. It's not the gods. Something old is singing through our minds. And I have seen it before."

A hush fell over the room.

She turned her eyes toward Ember.

"In fire," she whispered. "Once, long ago. A village gone to ash, and a girl walked out. Carrying shadows in her spine."

Murmurs surged.

Ash stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between Ember and the gathering suspicion.

But the councilwoman raised her hand.

"She is not the threat," she said. "She is the warning."

Then she collapsed.

Convulsing.

And in the space of a breath, the lights in the room dimmed. Shadows stretched unnaturally. Candles flared black before dying.

Everyone screamed.

And in the echoing silence that followed, the woman stood.

Eyes empty.

And from her mouth came a voice that wasn't hers:

"You've grown, Ember. But you're still my little spark."

Ember froze.

That voice.

She hadn't heard it in years, not like this.

"Ash," she whispered. "That's him."

The Mindweaver, speaking through the elder's flesh, grinned.

"I watched you suffer," it hissed. "You tried to become something new. But roots don't lie. And I know your true name."

Ember's throat tightened.

The villagers were backing away in horror.

"Why now?" she asked aloud. "What do you want?"

The possessed woman tilted her head unnaturally far. "To remind you what you are. A spark. A flame. You burn, Ember. Everything you touch turns to cinder."

And then the body collapsed.

Dead.

Real silence followed.

And fear.

Not the scattered kind anymore.

Now it had focus.

Eyes turned to Ember.

Hands clenched into fists.

Ash stepped forward before any of them could speak.

"You saw that thing," he said. "It's not her. It's using her."

But fear doesn't reason.

Not when it's easier to blame the flame.

Ash turned to Ember, jaw set. "We need to move. Now."

She didn't argue.

Because behind her calm, her fingers trembled.

And deep within her, something she hadn't felt in years flickered again.

The pull of fire.

Not to protect.

But to destroy.

And the Mindweaver knew it.

*****

The village square felt colder than usual, even though the sun was climbing high. The morning's horror still clung to the air like a thick fog, sticky, choking, impossible to shake.

Ember stood by the well, staring at the cracked stones, her hands clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Ash approached quietly, his footsteps soft on the dirt. He handed her a small piece of bread wrapped in cloth. "You need to eat," he said gently.

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"You can't fight on an empty stomach," he replied, his voice low but firm. "And neither can I."

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the cracks in her resolve softened. She took the bread.

Around them, villagers whispered and cast furtive glances. Some avoided her gaze altogether. Ember felt their suspicion like cold knives pressing against her back.

She hated it.

But it was inevitable. Fear breeds blame. And the Mindweaver's demonstration had given them something to hold onto, something tangible to fear.

The council met again in the elder hall, but this time the tone was harsher, more desperate. They debated curfews, patrols, and, worst of all, exile.

Ash stood by Ember's side, his presence a shield against the growing storm.

"You're not alone," he said quietly. "We'll figure this out."

Ember nodded, though her heart felt heavier than ever.

Later, as the sun dipped low and painted the forest gold, Ember wandered toward the edge of the village, where the trees whispered secrets she was only beginning to understand.

Ash followed, keeping a careful distance. "You want to talk?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "I have to tell you something."

They sat on a fallen log, the forest breathing around them. Ember took a deep breath.

"My past… it's not clean," she said. "I wasn't always who I am now. Before I came here, before I met you, I ran from things I did… things I couldn't forgive."

Ash listened without interrupting.

"There was a fire," she said, voice barely more than a whisper. "A village burned. I was there. I couldn't save them. The flames… they followed me. The Mindweaver took root then, in the ashes of my guilt."

She looked at him, searching. "That's why it knows me so well. Why it won't let go."

Ash reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "You're not your past, Ember. You're here, with me. And we're going to fight this."

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I want to believe that."

A rustle in the underbrush made them both tense. A young girl stepped into the clearing, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

"I heard you," she said softly. "I want to help."

Ember smiled faintly. "What's your name?"

"Lina," the girl replied.

Ash stood, offering a hand. "Welcome to the fight, Lina."

As the shadows lengthened and the stars began to prick the sky, Ember realized this was only the beginning.

The Mindweaver's shadow stretched far, but so did their own flame.

And she wasn't ready to let it die.

*****