The road to Greystead was cloaked in the uneasy stillness that followed devastation. The sky was overcast, and a thin veil of ash drifted in the wind, falling like gray snow over the ruined hills. Kieran, Maera, and Ysolde traveled in silence at first, their steps crunching softly along the dirt path that wound between scorched trees and blackened stone.
Kieran walked with the sword strapped to his back, its weight both comforting and unfamiliar. The newly kindled energy in his veins had not faded. If anything, it pulsed stronger with each step—subtle and warm, like embers beneath skin. He kept his hand close to the hilt, not out of fear, but instinct.
Maera led the way, eyes constantly scanning the horizon. Her demeanor was sharp and alert, the practiced caution of a veteran servant with secrets heavier than luggage. Ysolde kept to Kieran's side, silent, still processing the trauma they had endured.
After a long stretch of silence, Ysolde glanced at him, her voice low. "Do you think... anyone else made it out?"
Kieran kept his gaze on the road ahead. "I don't know," he said softly. "I hope so. But we didn't see anyone."
She nodded, hugging her arms around herself. "It doesn't feel real yet. Like... like I'm going to wake up and find the kitchen bustling, your father grumbling about breakfast, Maera telling me to keep my hair pinned."
Kieran gave a faint, bitter smile. "Yeah. I keep expecting to hear my father's voice. Or smell his tea brewing."
Ysolde hesitated, then reached for his hand. "We'll make it, Kieran. You'll rebuild our house. I know you will."
He squeezed her fingers gently. "Not just me. We do it together. All of us left."
Maera, walking just ahead, glanced back with a raised brow. "Well then, if we're all in this together, someone else can take a turn carrying this gods-cursed pack," she said, nodding to the satchel slung across her shoulder. "I swear it's gained weight every mile."
Kieran and Ysolde exchanged glances, the first flicker of a smile tugging at their lips since the fires. "Deal," Kieran said, moving to relieve her of the burden.
"Don't be fooled," Maera added with mock sternness. "This doesn't mean you're in charge now. It just means I'm clever enough to delegate."
Kieran chuckled, a dry sound that surprised even him. Ysolde gave a small laugh too, brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. For a moment, the weight they carried felt just a little lighter.
They traveled until the sun hung low and red on the horizon. As they crested a low ridge, the outer edge of Greystead came into view: a walled town surrounded by fields that had only been lightly touched by flame. The smoke rising from its chimneys and the distant ring of a smith's hammer offered a strange kind of comfort.
At the gate, Maera presented a small medallion with the Ashveil crest. The guards recognized it immediately and gave them passage without question.
Within Greystead, life moved on in cautious normalcy. People moved about their business with the distracted urgency of those pretending things hadn't changed. But Kieran could feel it—the tension beneath the surface. Whispers of the attack had reached even here.
They made their way to a modest estate near the town square. A herald announced their arrival, and within moments, a tall, stern-faced man in his early fifties stepped into the hall. His silver-streaked hair was tied back, and his deep-set eyes burned with quiet intellect.
"Maera," he said. "I feared the worst."
"Lord Arkwyn," Maera replied, bowing her head. "We've come with heavy news. Caelum is gone. House Ashveil has fallen."
A silence settled over the room. Arkwyn looked to Kieran and Ysolde, then back to Maera.
"And yet hope stands before me. Come. We will talk."
They were ushered through the grand entry hall of the estate, where tall arched windows let in soft golden light that shimmered on the polished stone floors. Oil paintings of ancestors lined the walls, and elegant columns stood sentinel between plush chairs and finely carved furniture. The air smelled faintly of parchment and lemon oil. Servants moved discreetly, their footsteps muffled by thick rugs as they passed through curtained doorways.
They were led into a study tucked behind a pair of heavy mahogany doors. The room was warm and rich with age. Shelves crowded with leather-bound books lined every wall, broken only by tall windows draped in deep burgundy curtains. Maps were pinned and rolled across one side of the room, their corners weighed down by inkwells and curiosities. A large oak desk stood near the hearth, which crackled softly, throwing a gentle glow across the worn carpet.
As they settled into the well-worn chairs facing his desk, Arkwyn folded his hands, eyes flicking between each of them. "You've come far, and not just in distance," he said, voice gentler than expected. "You all look worn to the bone. Are you hurt? Do you need rest or a healer? The roads are harsh even without tragedy nipping at your heels."
Maera gave a small nod at Arkwyn's concern. "We're tired, yes, but alive. That's more than I feared we'd manage when the fires began. We've eaten and tended to our wounds as best we could. Now, you deserve to know what happened."
As Maera began to recount the events of the attack, Arkwyn rose briefly and stepped to the door, murmuring instructions to a maid who waited just outside. Moments later, the scent of steeping herbs drifted into the room as tea was prepared.
As the scent of steeping tea began to fill the room, Maera launched into the tale of the attack. Her voice remained steady as she recounted the chaos and horror, the betrayal and the fire, painting the full scope of Ashveil's fall. Arkwyn listened in grim silence, his expression darkening with every detail. When she finished, the maid returned with a tray, and Arkwyn himself poured the tea, setting cups before each of them with quiet reverence before sinking heavily into the chair behind his desk.
"The capital must be your next stop," he said finally. "Caelum was right. If Kieran is to reclaim anything of Ashveil, he must pass the trials and gain the academy's protection."
He paused, his gaze distant. "Your father and I—Caelum and I—we were brothers in all but blood. We came up through the academy together, fought side by side in the Border Wars, and shared dreams of what our houses could become. He was a stubborn man, proud, but he loved fiercely. To see his house fall... it wounds me deeply. But to see you here, Kieran, alive and unbroken, gives me hope. For his legacy. And for yours.""
Kieran opened his mouth to speak, but Arkwyn raised a hand.
"You'll have time for grief later. Right now, you must become stronger. There are those who will want to see your family truly ended. You need allies, knowledge, power."
Kieran nodded slowly. The ember within him answered.
"Then I'll pass the trials. I'll rebuild House Ashveil."
Arkwyn gave a faint smile. "Spoken like your father."
That night, Kieran couldn't sleep. He sat by the window of the guest room, watching the moonlight silver the rooftops of Greystead. The sword lay beside him, and the words that had once been invisible, now seared into his memory, echoed in his mind.
… From Fire, Rebirth… In the blood of the fallen shall rise the Flameborn… Marked by ruin, tempered in loss… they shall carry the wrath of old embers into a world unready.
A week ago, he had been a boy with noble blood and distant dreams.
Now, he was the last heir of a burned house. Flameborn.
Tomorrow, the road to the capital awaited.
And Kieran Ashveil would meet it with fire in his heart.