The lands below the cliffs of Vael'Shara were scorched and blackened, dotted by skeletal trees and the ghosts of cities. Caelara descended into the ruins with nothing but her staff, her cloak, and the pulse of prophecy still warm in her chest.
By the time she reached the outskirts of Derem Hollow, dusk had already fallen. Fires burned in abandoned homes, not from hearths but from torchlight—warning signs of scavengers and mercenaries.
She found the boy in the ruins of a shrine, curled up beside a broken statue of Virelle. He was no older than thirteen, thin as a reed, with hair like shadow and eyes—those eyes, golden like her vision had promised.
"Who are you?" she asked softly.
He startled, scrambling to his feet. "I'm no one! Leave me alone!"
A scream split the air—steel against flesh. The boy's head jerked up.
"They found me," he whispered.
From the mist emerged three figures, cloaked in dark armor with symbols scorched across their chests: hunters of the Black Flame Order, mercenaries who hunted Starborn children rumored to carry divine blood.
Caelara stepped forward, staff raised. "You will not touch him."
The leader sneered. "This doesn't concern you, crone."
The sigil beneath her skin blazed.
A wind howled through the ruins, lifting dust and light into a storm. The mercenaries staggered, blinded, as Caelara spoke a word of power lost to time. Her staff struck the earth—light erupted, searing through shadow.
When the dust settled, only ash remained.
The boy stared at her. "What... what are you?"
She knelt. "I am the Last Oracle. And you... are the hope of this world."
He shook his head. "No. I've done nothing but run. I don't even know my name."
"Then let us find it together," she said.
He paused. "Ashen. That's what the villagers called me. Because of my eyes."
Caelara smiled. "Ashen it is. Come. We have much to do."
Together, they walked into the night.