The Mark of the Forgotten Flame
The stars above Durax did not shimmer that night—they burned.
High atop the jagged cliffs of Mount Veyran, the sky split open like a wound. Winds screamed like dying gods as fire poured from the heavens—not the kind that scorched the earth, but the kind that marked destinies. Those who watched from afar called it an omen. Those who knew better called it a reckoning.
At the heart of the storm, a child was born.
Not in a castle, nor a battlefield—but in silence, beneath the tattered banners of an abandoned temple. His cries pierced the night as if defying the chains of fate. He came into the world with hair like sapphire flames, and eyes like molten gold—a color unseen in any bloodline for a thousand years.
They tried to hide him.
A crown feared him. A prophecy demanded him. A curse followed him.
His mother, once a noble marked by divine magic, gave him no name. She only whispered a word etched into her dreams since childhood:
"Lythorion."
The sages feared it.
The priests denied it.
The gods watched in silence.
He was not meant to live.
And yet he did.
Beneath the shadows of a splintering empire, while kings vied for power and monsters stirred beneath the mountains, the boy grew. Taught by blades and books. Hidden behind silver dyes and forged identities. Hunted by forces older than kingdoms.
They called him a bastard, a mistake, a blessing gone wrong.
But he would become their undoing.
Not because he was chosen—
But because he chose himself.
And as war stirs once more in the lands of Durax, the golden flame awakens.