The wind howled over the husks of ruined towers, broken steel and shattered glass catching the last rays of daylight. From the edge of the Citadel's outer ring, Kael Thorne watched smoke rise in slow spirals, like fingers of something long dead trying to claw their way back to the sky.
This wasn't part of his delivery route.
He crouched behind a toppled sign—ZONE 6: CIVILIAN ACCESS RESTRICTED—and exhaled, the breath fogging in the sharp dusk air. His old courier bag thudded softly against his side as he adjusted it.
Something wasn't right.
"Iria," he whispered into the communicator clipped to his collar. "You reading this? The drop zone's been torched. There's nothing left."
Static.
He frowned, tapping the comm again. "Iria. Come on, don't do the silent treatment thing—"
Shrkkk.
The sound sliced through the wind—metal grinding on stone. Not human.
Kael's heart kicked.
He turned, slowly. A shape moved beyond the haze, hunched and shivering like a wet animal. A dozen red eyes blinked to life in the mist.
Veilborn.
Monsters born from the twisted echoes of fallen Emberborne. Starved of life. Drawn to the scent of Chrona.
His Chrona.
He bolted.
Adrenaline slammed into his veins like fire, legs pumping over cracked pavement. He tore through a collapsed alleyway, leaping over debris, lungs burning. The creature shrieked, impossibly close behind.
"Iria—I need evac!" he shouted into the comm. "Now!"
Still static.
Then—
"Kael!" her voice cracked through the link, breathless. "What are you doing in Zone 6?! That place's been sealed since—"
"I know!" he shouted. "Tell me after I outrun the soul-eater that wants my spine!"
A second shriek. Closer.
Kael skidded to a stop at the edge of a crumbled overpass. Nothing but open air and the ground four stories below. The Veilborn closed in behind, rearing back, mouth splitting too wide for any sane anatomy.
He had no weapon. No training. No time.
And then it happened.
A sound—deep and distant, like a match struck inside his skull. A warmth burst through his chest, spreading outward like wildfire. His vision swam with crimson light.
His left hand began to burn.
There was no pain, only pressure—as though something ancient had just woken inside him. He looked down.
A mark—black and glowing faint red—curled over the back of his hand like charred roots. His breath caught.
"No," he whispered. "Not me. This isn't supposed to—"
The world erupted.
Crimson flame burst from his arm, spiraling into a shield just as the Veilborn lunged. Fire and shadow clashed in an explosion that knocked Kael off his feet, the bridge giving way beneath them both.
He fell.
…
Kael woke to the smell of ash and blood.
The mark was still there, etched into his skin. The creature was gone—disintegrated. The comm crackled again.
"Kael?" Iria's voice, barely above a whisper. "Where are you? Your signal just… vanished."
Kael stared up at the smoke-stained sky.
"Iria," he said slowly, staring at the glowing symbol on his hand. "I think I just inherited an Ashen Mark."
A pause.
"…That's not possible. You… Kael, that mark. It's matching something in the restricted archives."
"Which one?"
Another pause. A much longer one.
"Eclipsing Flame. The mark of the one who betrayed the Citadel. The mark of the First Emberborne to ever burn the world."