**CHAPTER ONE**
**The Boy Who Dreamed of Fire**
The first thing Alfred remembered was the fire.
Not the rough wool of his blanket, nor the earthy smell of the mountain soil outside their cottage. Not even his mother's voice, sharp as a flint strike, calling him to supper. Just the fire.
At six years old, Alfred knew he wasn't supposed to sit so close to the hearth. The other village children got blisters from merely brushing against a cooking pot. But when the flames danced in their stone cradle, something in his chest answered.
"Alfred!"
His mother's calloused hand closed around his wrist, yanking him back from the fireplace. Embers scattered across the packed dirt floor.
"By the Elders, child," Liora hissed, beating out a smoldering spot on his sleeve. "You'll burn the house down one day."
Alfred blinked up at her. "But it's singing."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. His mother went very still. The firelight painted shadows across her face that made her look like a stranger.
"What did you say?"
Alfred swallowed. "The fire. It... hums."
For three heartbeats, the only sound was the crackling logs. Then Liora turned abruptly toward the stew pot hanging over the flames. "Wash your hands. Your father will be in from the fields soon."
That night, when Alfred curled beneath his scratchy wool blanket, he found the edges blackened and crisp. He didn't remember touching the fire.
Outside, the wind howled through the mountain pass like something hungry.