The Fire Wraith walks like nothing matters—like the world’s already ash and it’s just a formality now, torch in one hand, blade in the other, dripping heat that hums like static in your skull. His hood hides everything except the molten grin leaking through, like his face is an accident that kept burning. Behind him, the sky bleeds orange and violet, a sun on fire or maybe just hell itself, hovering like it’s watching him work. The air crackles. You don’t breathe around him. You remember pain. And you feel small.
