The dawn was not gentle.
It clawed its way through the shattered skies of Skarvath like a beast desperate for blood.
From the ruins of the Silent Throne, where once the gods reigned with unyielding will, rose a firestorm of mortals—scarred, broken, but burning brighter than any star.
At the heart of the inferno stood Reginal J. Ashveil, the Ashborne Writ, the man who had stolen fire from gods and named it his own.
The world was watching.
The sky trembled.
The very earth seemed to hold its breath.
No longer king by blood or birthright, Reginal was a king by will—a force unstoppable, unbreakable.
Behind him, Ma'karash spread his vast ebony wings, casting a shadow like a storm across the land. His breath was ash and ember; his eyes twin dying suns that bore witness to ancient wrath and new beginnings.
At Reginal's side, Kammy, the Dreamblade, moved with quiet grace—a living storm of gold fire, her sword singing with the weight of all battles fought and lives saved. And Milo, the Bloodhowl Warden, eyes aflame with that strange black soulfire, stood sentinel—a reminder that not all power comes from light.
But the war was far from over.
The gods had fallen, but their children—the mortal kings, the secret orders, the hidden cults—still clung to power. They whispered of rebellion, spoke of curses, and sent assassins cloaked in shadow to snuff the new flame.
Reginal felt their eyes—hungry, jealous, fearful.
They would come.
I
Rising from the rubble, Reginal raised Mournshard—a blade not forged by any mortal hand but crafted from the pain and memories of countless souls. Its edge shimmered with names whispered in fire, stories that refused to die.
He knew this day was a crossroads.
The Ember Empire could be a beacon—or a pyre.
"Brothers. Sisters," Reginal's voice boomed across the broken plains, echoing in the hearts of every man, woman, and child who had suffered under silence and shadow.
"We are the ash that rises after the fire.
We are the stories that outlast the silence.
We are the Empire."
Cheers erupted.
But in the back of his mind, Reginal heard a whisper—a warning from the Warden within Milo, a promise from the dragon Ma'karash, and a solemn oath from Kammy's silent gaze.
Power always demands a price.
II
The first act of a king is to build.
Reginal called his council—warriors, scholars, dreamers, and survivors.
They forged new laws, ones written in blood and flame, not in gold and chains.
The Ember Empire would be different.
It would be a place where memory was sacred, where stories lived and breathed, where fire was not just destruction but life.
But shadows lingered.
One night, beneath the silver light of twin moons, a figure cloaked in black came to the gates of Emberhall.
Silent as the grave.
Deadly as regret.
He bore a message:
"Your flame will burn out, Ashborne Writ.
The gods do not die so easily."
III
Reginal stood atop the highest tower, watching the stars bleed into dawn.
He clenched Mournshard until his knuckles bled.
The battle was not over.
Not even close.
But now… the fight was his.
And his alone.
A storm gathered on the horizon—one of flame, blood, and destiny.
Reginal smiled.
Let the world come.
For he was no longer a man.
He was a legend.
IV
The story of the Ember Empire had just begun.
And every legend, every empire, every god, fears one thing above all else:
The flame that refuses to be extinguished.
The end of Book One.