By dawn, the coal was gone.
Irisen knelt by the cold hearth, running trembling fingers through the soot. There was no warmth left—no sign it had ever burnt. But the dream clung to him like a second skin, each whispered word etched into his thoughts.
Find the Everburn Heart.
He didn't know what it was. But he knew he had to leave the Hollow. He'd always known, deep down, that he didn't belong here. Not among the frightened villagers, not under the eyes that flinched away when he passed, not in a place where silence greeted his name.
Something waited for him out there. Something that burned.
The village square reeked of fear.
Old women clutched sprigs of bitterweed to ward off curses, and the blacksmith hammered nails into his doorframe, muttering charms. The cause of their panic stood at the heart of the square—a stranger cloaked in deep grey, face half-hidden beneath a hood, and a long staff strapped across their back.
He bore the Ash Mark on his palm.
Irisen recognised it instantly. It was the sigil carved into the oldest stones outside the village—the mark of the forgotten gods, of ancient fire. A spiral of soot and ash, like a sun swallowed by a storm.
The village elder stood stiffly before the stranger, wringing his hands. "There's nothing here for your kind," he said. "No relics, no ruin, just soil and sorrow."
The stranger's voice was soft, almost sad. "Then I must have come for someone."
Eyes turned, almost as one, toward Irisen.
He stood frozen on the edge of the square, heart pounding. The stranger's head tilted slightly, as if seeing something others could not.
"A boy born without a soul," he murmured. "And yet... You burn brighter than most."
"I'm not what you're looking for," Irisen said, voice hoarse.
"No," said the stranger. "You're more."
They met again by the cliff that night.
"I am Kael Rivenmoor," the stranger said. "A Flamebinder of the Last Light. I guard what's left of the old truths. And you, Irisen Vale, are the spark we feared—and hoped—would come."
Irisen looked away. "I don't know anything. I can't even control what's inside me."
Kael's gaze softened. "You think control is the goal? No. A fire caged too long forgets how to warm. Or how to destroy."
He knelt, unwrapping a bundle at his side. Within was a map—old, torn, and smudged by soot.
"This", he said, pointing to a scar of mountains far to the east, "is where the world ended once. The Sundered Forge. Deep within lies the Everburn Heart. If you reach it first, you may awaken the gods. If the Ashen Lords do…"
"They'll consume it," Irisen whispered.
Kael nodded. "They are the hollow kings—their bodies made of scorched bone and dying stars. They drain the magic of the world to prolong their rule."
"So why me?"
Kael hesitated. "Because you are something they fear. Not a soul… but a spark. A flame untouched by their blight."
That night, Irisen made his choice.
He packed little—an old cloak, a dagger no sharper than a spoon, and a loaf of hard, hard bread. The voices whispered to him again as he stepped beyond the Hollow's border.
The path begins in blood.
You will lose. You will burn.
But through flame… we rise.
He turned once, looking back at the only home he'd ever known. Then he stepped into the wilds beyond.
And somewhere far to the east, deep beneath the mountain ruins, the Everburn Heart gave a single pulse.