The eastern road out of Black Hollow was more memory than path, winding through the crumbling teeth of the Ironspire foothills. In centuries past, it had bustled with carts, merchants, ironbound soldiers, and hymn-chanting priests. Now, it was a graveyard of stone markers and wind-split trees.
Kael walked alone, the ember pulsing faintly in his chest like a second heartbeat.
He had no map. No coin. No destination.
Only a whisper — "Seek the flame. Rekindle the world."
Ashwilds
By midday, the road had vanished entirely into the Ashwilds — a stretch of no-man's land left ruined by old wars and older magic. Twisted pinewoods clawed at the horizon, and black ash clung to the underbrush like snow. Kael moved carefully. Even in Black Hollow, he'd heard the stories: ghosts that bled shadows, trees that screamed when cut, winds that stole voices.
He didn't believe them.
At least, not until he saw the crow.
It was dead, perched on a branch like a puppet. Its feathers smoldered gently — not from fire, but from something inside it. When he got closer, it turned its head — impossibly — and watched him with one eye hollowed by flame.
Kael backed away. He didn't run. But he didn't blink either.
When he finally turned his head, the bird was gone.
That night, he took shelter beneath the roots of an old elm — its bark bleached white like bone. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and his breath steamed in the air like ghosts fleeing his lungs.
The ember stirred again.
Visions came — less violent this time, but no less strange.
A shattered city, its towers broken like teeth.A river of glass.A hand reaching for him, wrapped in flame.And five stars arranged in a circle — burning brighter than the sun.
He awoke with a gasp, sweat pooling in the hollow of his spine despite the cold.
The dreams weren't just dreams.
They were memories.
Not his. But someone's. Or something's.
It was just before dawn when he felt the shift in the air.
His instincts flared — a holdover from Black Hollow, where waking up too slow meant waking up robbed. Or dead.
He opened his eyes and reached for the dagger he'd stolen from an abandoned shack three days earlier.
Too slow.
A hand was already around his throat.
"Don't scream," said a voice — rough, feminine, urgent.
Kael froze. The figure crouched over him was young — maybe a year older than him — and carried the tension of someone who'd run too far for too long.
Her eyes flicked to his chest. "I felt it. You're glowing."
Kael didn't understand. "What are you—"
"The ember." She said it like a curse. "You've got one."
He sat up as she released him, her dagger still pointed, but no longer at his throat.
"I'm Lira," she said. "I used to have one too."
Ember-Touched
They sat in the shadow of the elm tree, watching the sun claw its way up through the mist.
She told him about the others — the ember-touched. Children and wanderers like him, chosen by slivers of the ancient Flame. She spoke of secret sanctuaries and hidden wars. Of places like Tarnvale, a ruined fortress where once a conclave of Flamebearers held their last stand.
And of creatures called Ashwrought — twisted remnants of magic, born when embers fell into corrupted hands or lost vessels.
"They're drawn to you now," she said. "Like wolves to blood. I've seen it."
Kael clenched his fists. "Why me?"
Lira shrugged. "Why anyone? The Flame doesn't care if we're ready. It just chooses. And once it does, everyone else wants to either worship you… or cut it out of your chest."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, in the wind, a new sound.
A rustle. A low hum.
And wings.
Not birds.
Too heavy. Too wrong.
Lira grabbed his hand. "Run."
The Ashwrought
They fled through the trees, ducking beneath low limbs and vaulting over roots.
Shapes followed them — floating, half-formed things with ember eyes and smoke-slick skin. One glided silently beside Kael, whispering in a forgotten tongue. Another split open down the middle, revealing burning teeth.
Lira shouted over her shoulder, "Don't let them touch you!"
Kael didn't ask why.
He just ran harder.
The trees thinned, bursting out onto a hillside covered in yellow grass and cracked stone. Below them, a ravine glowed with geothermal mist and glowing fungi.
"Down!" Lira said.
They scrambled into the ravine just as the Ashwrought stopped at the ridge. They hovered there, hissing, but did not descend.
"They won't go near deep stone," Lira explained, panting. "Something about it burns them."
Kael slumped to the ground, heart pounding. "What are they?"
She leaned back, eyes narrowed. "The past. Made hungry."
A Pact in the Dark
Hours passed. The mist thickened, and the ravine fell into twilight. Kael and Lira rested by a hot spring bubbling with soft blue light. Somewhere above, a sky full of stars stirred behind the clouds, unseen.
Kael finally asked, "Why did your ember leave?"
Lira's jaw tightened. "I don't know. One day it just… stopped. Like a candle snuffed out. Maybe I failed it."
Kael touched his chest. "It feels alive. Like it's dreaming."
"Then let's keep it that way," she said.
A long silence followed, broken only by the hiss of steam.
Eventually, Kael spoke again.
"I can't do this alone."
Lira looked up. Her eyes were tired, but steady. "Then don't."
She offered her hand.
Kael took it.
Together, they looked north — toward a future neither could name, in a world that had long since buried its hope.
But the ember burned on.
A flicker in the ashes of a dying age.
And for the first time since the chapel, Kael felt something strange settle inside him.
Not fear.Not fire.
Purpose.