— the Ashborn, now in the human world, begin taking justice into their own hands. Dexter is caught between his human roots and the infernal bloodline that still stirs inside him. Shadows of PRIMAL's legacy linger... and something ancient begin
The sky over Dayton was quiet.
No swirling flame. No rifts in space. Just clouds—gray and mundane—drifting lazily like a world trying to forget what it had witnessed. But beneath the concrete and rusted steel of the city, under its bars and strip malls, something unnatural was stirring.
Dexter stood on the rooftop of an abandoned hospital, watching the sun rise over the skyline. He hadn't slept since returning home. Not because he couldn't—but because rest felt dishonest. Peace wasn't something you just walked back into after slaughtering gods.
Behind him, the wind kicked up dust and ash. Not from any recent fire, but from something older—someone older.
"You're restless," came a voice.
Dexter turned. A hooded figure stepped from the roof's stairwell exit. Slender, tall, cloaked in flame-stitched black robes. Her eyes glowed ember-red beneath her cowl.
Nymera of the Ashborn.
"I'm careful," Dexter said, eyeing her hands. "You walk like a ghost. Most people announce themselves."
"We are not people."
Her words drifted like smoke. She moved to stand beside him, looking out at the quiet city below. Sirens echoed in the distance—just a car accident, maybe. But after all he'd seen, every sound felt like a warning.
"Your world is fragile," she said softly. "Built on paper. And now the ash begins to settle."
"It's still my world," he replied. "Fragile or not."
Nymera didn't respond right away. Her silence was like a held breath—expectant.
"The others are growing... anxious," she said finally. "They hunger for movement. Action. A reckoning."
"I told them," Dexter snapped. "There will be no war. Not here."
"Justice is not war," she said, too calmly. "You made a promise to the Ashborn."
He turned sharply. "I promised to lead them. Not to burn the world down again."
Nymera studied him. Her ember-eyes flickered.
"No," she said. "But you promised to change it."
---
Across town, in the shadows of a crumbling warehouse once used by a biker gang, five Ashborn knelt in a circle. At the center lay a man—bloody, bound, and weeping.
He wasn't innocent. That much was true. His rap sheet was longer than his regrets. But what the Ashborn cared about wasn't the law. It was the harm he had done—uncorrected by mortal justice.
One of them, Korr, stepped forward. His left arm was wrapped in glowing black chains—remnants of PRIMAL's soulfire. He raised a hand over the man's chest.
"You preyed on the weak," Korr said. "On women. On children. Earth's law let you go free. We do not."
"No, please—" the man begged.
But the flame was already rising.
---
Dexter felt it.
From miles away, his soul clenched. The surge of righteous fire, summoned not in defense but in vengeance. He spun toward Nymera.
"You said they would wait!"
Nymera didn't flinch. "I said they were patient. Not obedient."
---
Dexter arrived too late.
The warehouse smoldered like a dragon's breath. He burst through the twisted metal doors, coughing on ash. A blackened corpse lay in the center—skin melted, eyes burned from their sockets. Ashborn sigils glowed on the ground around it.
The room reeked of divine punishment.
"Korr!" Dexter roared. "Where the hell are you?!"
A faint shimmer in the air, then footsteps. Korr stepped forward, his expression unreadable beneath his bone-carved mask.
"He was guilty," Korr said.
"That's not your call."
"He tortured six children and paid his way out. Ask your police."
Dexter stepped forward, fists clenched. "I don't care if he was the devil himself. You brought our war here. Into my world. That's not justice—it's execution."
"You sound like them," Korr growled. "Weak. Bound by red tape and false morals."
Dexter's eyes flickered with dangerous gold. "Say that again."
But before either could move, Nymera appeared in the doorway.
"Enough."
Her voice cut through the smoke like a knife. "We must not fracture. Not now."
Korr backed down, reluctantly. But his gaze lingered.
"He'll slip," Korr muttered. "He forgets what we are."
"No," Nymera whispered. "He fears what he still might become."
---
Later that night, Dexter sat alone in his childhood room. Posters still clung to the walls—old heroes from comic books, faded by time. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above his dresser.
His eyes still held traces of fire.
He wanted to believe he was human again. But his blood didn't forget.
A knock.
"Come in," he said.
Mrs. Clara entered, holding a cup of cocoa like she used to when he was twelve and couldn't sleep.
"You looked cold," she said gently.
Dexter gave her a small smile. "Thanks, Mom."
She sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
"You're not okay," she said. "And I don't expect you to be."
"I'm trying," he said.
"I know," she whispered. "But maybe... the world you came back from isn't done with you yet."
---
Two nights later.
Reports started surfacing across the city. Men and women with histories of violent crimes—never convicted—were being found burned or vanished. No witnesses. No evidence. Just scorch marks and whispers.
The media called it a vigilante purge.
Dexter knew better.
The Ashborn were moving without him.
---
He found Nymera near a lake—where the city met the woods. She was lighting candles around a circle of stones.
"Stop them," he demanded. "Before they cross a line they can't return from."
"They already have," she said.
"Then pull them back."
She looked up at him, and for a moment, there was something like sadness in her eyes.
"You can't fight fire," she said, "and expect it to become water."
"I don't want them to be water," he snapped. "I want them to see."
"To see what?"
"That this world is broken, yes—but it's ours to fix. Not to punish."
Nymera tilted her head. "And if justice demands punishment?"
"Then let it come from law," he said. "Not from flame."
She rose slowly. "You are still afraid of what you are."
"I'm not afraid," Dexter said. "I'm responsible."
She stepped close. "Then take responsibility. Lead them."
---
That night, he called them.
All of them.
Ashborn from every corner of the city came—cloaked, veiled in shadow and purpose. On a rooftop downtown, under stars hidden by clouds, Dexter stood before them like a judge before the fallen.
"You followed me because I fought PRIMAL," he said. "Because I stood against the devouring flame."
Heads nodded.
"But the war is over. The world is healing. And you're tearing its wounds open again."
Korr stepped forward. "We do what must be done."
"No," Dexter said. "You do what you want."
A hush.
Dexter raised his hands. "I'm not asking you to stop being who you are. You are born of ash. Of pain. But if you keep using fire to make things right, you'll end up becoming what we all fought to destroy."
Silence.
Then Nymera spoke.
"What do you propose, then, Flamebearer?"
Dexter looked out over the city. Lights twinkled in the dark like fragile hopes.
"We form a pact," he said. "We'll work in the shadows, yes—but we don't judge. We investigate. We expose. We push truth to light—but we do not play gods. No more deaths. No more fire."
"And if someone is beyond redemption?" Korr asked coldly.
"Then let the world see it," Dexter said. "Let them watch the truth burn, not the body."
There was a pause. Then, slowly, the Ashborn knelt—one by one. Not in worship, but in agreement.
A new path had begun.
One of shadow and fire. But tempered by justice.
---
Somewhere far from Dayton…
In the remnants of the scorched earth where PRIMAL fell, something stirred beneath the crust.
A molten crack glowed faintly. A heartbeat. Slow. Ancient.
And then—eyes.
Not flame.
Not fury.
But ice.
Something colder than PRIMAL had awakened.
And it remembered Dexter's name.
---