Rain drummed upon the slave quarters. Alonso lay awake,
staring at the wooden ceiling, when he heard the whisper.
"Child of flame…"He sat up sharply. The others snored; no
one else stirred."Who's there?" he whispered.
The voice was neither man nor woman, soft as smoke. "Blood
remembers what flesh forgets. Seek the mark beneath the old oak."Then silence.
By dawn, Alonso's curiosity had conquered fear. When the
guards changed shift, he slipped away into the rain-soaked fields and into theforest beyond.
He found the old oak monstrous tree twisted by age, its bark
blackened by lightning. At its roots lay a half-buried stone, etched with runes that pulsed faintly red.
As his fingers brushed it, heat shot through him. Images
flared behind his eyes, his mother's face, fire falling from the sky, a man's
sword gleaming in defense.
He fell to his knees, gasping. The mark burned itself into
his palm: a coiled flame.
Suddenly the air roared. Fire erupted from the stone,
swirling around him like a living storm. He screamed but the flames did not
burn. They welcomed him.Then darkness claimed him.
When he woke, dawn was breaking. The mark still glowed upon
his hand.For the first time in his life, Alonso felt power.
He didn't yet know what it meant, nor that this awakening
would set him upon a path of blood, loss, and freedom.
But somewhere far away, a dark sorcerer opened his eyes in alarm.
"The Flameborn," Lord Varyn hissed. "He lives."