The island had stopped being an island.
A week passed, but not one spent in stillness. Arthur did not rest. He did not wait. He raged. Over and over, fire tore from his lungs, blue and relentless, and with each outburst the world around him changed. The rocky outcrop, once jagged with dead brush and weathered stone, turned to molten channels of rippling glass. Where roots had clung to life, now obsidian stood, sharp and glinting. The sea claimed more with every tide, each wave crashing against slag and heat, then retreating like a creature unsure it wanted to touch what he had become.
He remained at the center of it all, a figure carved in flame. The fire recognized him. Accepted him. It did not flicker under the ocean's breath. It did not dim in the absence of rage. It simply endured, like him.
Until he couldn't.
On the eighth night, the storm in his chest no longer howled. It pulsed low, curled under the ribs, not quiet, but waiting.
