The rain had a way of softening the world, blurring the edges of stone and wood, muting the sharp sounds of village life into a quiet hush. It had been falling for three days without pause, turning the dirt roads of Brinmere into streams of sticky mud, and the thatch-roofed houses into dripping silhouettes. Smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals, lost quickly into the gray skies above.
Kael stood beneath the overhang of the stable, arms folded across his chest, trying to ignore the chill seeping through his tunic. His boots squelched every time he shifted, but he didn't care. It was the only place he could think. Or, rather, the only place the thoughts couldn't find him so easily.
He'd dreamt again the night before. Of fire. Of a vast, ancient tree burning from its roots to its highest branches, flames that did not consume but glowed like gold caught in sunlight. And a voice—soft and sorrowful—whispering words he never remembered upon waking, only feelings: longing, rage, grief.
He didn't tell anyone about the dreams. Not anymore. Not after what happened to his father.
"Trying to become part of the scenery?" came a voice, wry and familiar.
Kael turned to see Lira, standing just beyond the gate, a crooked grin on her face, her dark braid dripping rain. Her bow was slung over one shoulder, and she looked more amused than wet. It was her default state—mischief and certainty wrapped into a grin.
"Scenery doesn't have to shovel dung," Kael muttered, his expression almost smiling.
She sauntered closer, nudging him with her elbow. "Come on. There's tea and bad bread waiting in the smithy. Or are you planning to brood into next season?"
He hesitated, then followed.
The smithy's warmth hit him like a wave. Inside, old Hullen the smith clanged away at a bent horseshoe, his beard thick with soot, face ruddy. A kettle hissed in the corner, and Lira poured them both a tin cup before collapsing onto a crate. Kael sat opposite her, his eyes lingering on the flames in the hearth.
"You dreamed again," she said casually, between sips.
Kael didn't answer right away. He stared into the fire, the orange licking edges of his vision, the whisper almost there again.
"It's just smoke and heat," he said at last.
"You're not your father, Kael." Her voice was gentle now. That always scared him more than her teasing.
"He thought that too." Kael's fingers tightened around the cup. "He believed the fire spoke to him. That he could understand it. That the Everflame was calling him." He looked up, eyes hard. "And where did that get him? Branded mad. Dragged away in chains."
Lira didn't flinch. "He also saved five villagers from the Blightborn before they got over the ridge. Doesn't that count for something?"
"Not in this village."
The rain beat harder outside, a dull rhythm against the windows. Hullen grunted, reshaped the iron, and left the two alone in the quiet.
Lira leaned forward. "You're stronger than him."
"You don't know that."
"I do." She jabbed his chest with two fingers. "You don't run. You just bury it. But I see you, Kael. And something's coming. I think you feel it too."
Kael looked at her, and for a moment he wanted to tell her everything. The voice. The visions. The strange warmth that had started to pulse in his chest during the dreams, like something had woken up. But if he said it aloud, it would make it real. And real things could break.
That night, Kael walked the southern ridge alone, where the town met the edge of the forest. Clouds shifted above like bruised skin across the sky. He needed to breathe, to get away from the quiet pity in people's eyes. From Lira's concern. From his own reflection.
He found himself near the old shrine. Barely more than a stone circle now, half-swallowed by vines. No one came here anymore. Not since the old gods were forbidden. Not since the king's decree that magic was poison and those who used it, traitors.
Kael crouched beside the largest stone and traced the faded rune with his fingers. He didn't know the symbol's meaning. No one did. But it stirred something in him—a weightless ache.
Suddenly, the wind died. Not slowed—stopped.
Kael straightened, heart beating harder.
Then he heard it. Not a sound, but a feeling. Like the memory of a scream woven into his bones. And then, faintly, the voice.
"Kael..."
His name, whispered like a secret.
The fire is not death. The fire is a door.
He stumbled back, eyes wide. The world snapped back into motion—the wind returned, the rustle of trees resumed.
He was alone again.
But the embers inside his chest… were still glowing.
The next day, the village was buzzing. A messenger had come from Elarion, the capital.
Kael watched from the edge of the crowd as the mayor read aloud the scroll. "By royal decree, a call has gone out for all able-bodied youths to present themselves at the High Court. Service to the realm. A chance for honor and standing."
Lira groaned behind him. "Sounds like another excuse to feed the noble army."
But Kael felt something shift. A quiet certainty.
The fire had called his name.
And now the world had answered.