Prologue: Ashes of the First Flame
The stars were dying.
Above the vast deserts of Arkenfall, where the sand shimmered gold by day and froze into glass by night, the heavens once told stories to those who dared listen. Now, they flickered—uncertain, unsteady, as though even the cosmos feared what had awakened beneath the earth.
Elarion, Arch-Seer of the Ember Order, stood at the edge of the Scorched Vale, his crimson robes fluttering in the breathless wind. Around him, six flames floated in a circle, each the remnant soul of a Seer who had once glimpsed too far beyond the veil. Their whispers filled the void like falling ash.
"It begins anew," said one.
"The cycle shatters," breathed another.
"The Phoenix stirs."
Elarion closed his eyes. The heat of the prophecy burned behind his eyelids, an ancient vision locked in time: wings of flame eclipsing the sun, a child wrapped in fire, a world breaking and rebuilding in one breath. He had spent his life trying to suppress the vision, fearing what it demanded of him.
But now, the signs were everywhere.
The Vaults of Aeryth had cracked open for the first time in a thousand years, spilling ghostlight into the mountain skies. The Skyborne Monolith had shattered in a storm that knew no wind. And beneath the ruins of Ilithar, a heartbeat pulsed—slow, steady, impossibly ancient.
The Phoenix was waking.
And that meant the prophecy was real.
Far away, across oceans and broken empires, a boy ran through fire.
Kael didn't know his last name. He didn't know why his dreams ended in screams or why sparks danced at his fingertips when he was angry. All he knew was that the city of Drelmor was burning, and the men with black hoods and steel gloves were hunting anyone born under a red star.
He had seen his reflection once, in the shattered mirror of a noble's carriage—messy black hair, golden-amber eyes that almost glowed in the dark, and the strange, ember-shaped mark over his heart. He looked like a dozen other orphans. But they were dead. And he was still running.
A bolt of lightning tore the sky apart, and Kael ducked into the ruins of an old shrine—once sacred, now forgotten. Statues of gods no one named anymore loomed in the darkness. The smell of burnt incense still clung to the air, mixed with blood and old dust.
He knelt beside a motionless figure—a woman in flowing robes, face pale as moonlight, a sigil glowing weakly on her palm. She wasn't dead. Not yet.
"They found me," she whispered, eyes fluttering open. "But I saw you. I saw the fire."
Kael's breath caught. "What fire?"
Her hand reached for his. "The Phoenix Flame... It lives in you. You must—"
The door shattered inward, steel-booted figures pouring in. The woman raised her hand, her dying voice cracking with ancient syllables.
Light exploded.
Kael screamed, not from pain—but from something inside him awakening. A roar echoed through the shrine, not human, not beast, but something greater. Something older. Wings unfurled in his mind—wings of flame and fury.
And then everything went white.
When Kael awoke, he was alone.
The soldiers were gone—burned to ash, their armor melted into slag. The woman had vanished, but her sigil now pulsed faintly on Kael's chest, overlaying the ember-mark.
He staggered outside. Drelmor was silent. The fires had died. The stars above were wrong—too bright, too many, as if the sky was making room for something returning.
A single feather drifted from the sky, glowing orange-gold. It landed in Kael's hand and shimmered like a heartbeat.
In that moment, he understood nothing—and yet everything changed.
Somewhere in the distance, a Seer collapsed to his knees, weeping.
In the Forbidden Spires, ancient runes cracked open.
And deep beneath the world, the First Flame shuddered.
The Phoenix Prophecy had begun.
And nothing would ever be the same again.