Before he became the cursed, he was the golden knight.The Kingdom of Vaeloria, 6 Years Ago.The banners of the Lightborne Order fluttered proudly over the battlements of Eldermoor Keep. Gold on white—an emblem of purity, of light, of protection. Below, soldiers trained in unison, their armor glinting in the morning sun. Squires scrambled between them, fetching swords, water, and barked instructions. And above them all, standing atop the stone terrace of the war hall, was the Knight-Captain "Ashen Valemir".
He had not yet earned the nickname "Ashen." Back then, he was simply Sir Kael of the Flame, the youngest Knight-Captain in two centuries. His armor gleamed like polished silver, and his name was sung by children in the streets. He smiled more then—laughing with comrades, sparring with grace, raising his sword not in fury but in faith.And yet… that morning, something unsettled him.
He stood still as the wind pulled at his cloak, gazing past the training yard and out to the black pines of the distant horizon. A storm was coming. Not one made of wind or rain—but one born of betrayal.Behind him, the doors of the war hall creaked open.
"You're up early, Captain," came a familiar voice.Kael turned to see Commander Dareth approaching, the grizzled veteran carrying a steaming mug of soulroot tea. His limp had worsened from the campaign in Mournscar, but the man still walked with the pride of ten lions.
"I couldn't sleep," Kael admitted, taking the cup with a nod of thanks. "The air feels... off."Dareth grunted. "The air always feels off before blood is spilled."
"You're certain they'll attack today?"
"Aye. The spies confirm it. The King's council grows blind, drunk on peace. But peace is a lie—just the silence before the sword is drawn."Kael sipped the tea. "Then we'll remind them what happens when they draw against the Lightborne."He said it with conviction. He believed it. But even then, a shadow curled inside his gut—a whisper of doubt. Something unseen and something ancient.
The sky burned red,fire rained from trebuchets as enemy forces swarmed the outer walls. The kingdom's traitor lords, long thought pacified, had returned in force, led by a warlock whose name had been stricken from the scriptures.
Kael stood in the breach, sword ablaze with spellfire, armor dented and darkened by ash. He fought like a legend reborn—cutting down shadows, calling to the Light, shielding the dying with nothing but will and still, it wasn't enough.They had betrayed them from within.
Poisoned the wardstones. Slit the throats of the castle priests. Turned once-loyal knights into flame-eyed monsters.And in the heart of the keep, where the sacred vaults lay sealed for centuries, the warlock performed the unthinkable—he opened the Obsidian Flame.
Kael arrived too late.The vault was shattered, its holy runes bleeding light. The warlock turned, mouth dripping with dark fire, eyes glowing with an impossible hunger.
"You should have let the old world die, Kael," he hissed. "But now you'll help me burn it."And he lunged.Their battle tore the sanctum apart—swords ringing, spells screaming, fire clashing with light. Kael's blade finally found the warlock's heart… but not before the Flame reached out and touched him.
Just a flicker and a moment enough to brand his soul forever.
Kael awoke three days later among the ash of Eldermoor.The keep was gone. His men—gone. Dareth's body lay with his sword still in hand, eyes open to the smoke-cloaked sky.
Kael stumbled through the ruins, bleeding, burned… and unhealing.
Every breath he took steamed in the cold air. His eyes glowed faintly, gold like smoldering coals. And when he cried, the tears sizzled against his skin.He heard the voices before he saw them.
"It's him," they whispered.
"His eyes… they burn."
"He's the one who opened the Flame."
"Monster."Kael reached out, desperate to explained and fire leapt from his hand.From that day forward,he was no longer Kael.No longer a knight and no longer welcome.He was Ashen—the cursed one,The ember that would not die.