The valley of Kharom slept beneath a veil of ash.
It drifted endlessly from the blackened peaks to the north, settling upon stone, soil, and bone alike. Once, green terraces had clung to the hillsides, and silver rivers had cut bright paths through the land. Now, everything lay muted and gray, as if the world itself had bowed its head in mourning.
Aren did not remember the valley as it once was.
He had been born into the ashes.
The cold bit through his cloak as he stood at the edge of the ravine, the wind pulling at his dark hair and carrying the scent of burnt iron from below. His right palm burned faintly beneath the bandage—an ember that never truly cooled. He had learned to ignore it, as one learned to ignore hunger or grief. But tonight, the pain pulsed with purpose.
Something below was calling to him.
Behind Aren, the remnants of the camp lay silent. The fire had been extinguished hours earlier, its coals scattered and buried. Sereth had insisted—no light, no trace. The Ashbound did not forgive carelessness.
"You're certain this is the place?" Sereth asked quietly.
She emerged from the rocks like a shadow given form, her long ash-gray cloak blending seamlessly with the ravine walls. Her eyes, sharp and pale, never left Aren's back.
Aren nodded. "The mark hasn't burned like this since the night of the fall."
Sereth's expression hardened.
"The First Crown," she murmured.
They did not speak its name lightly.
Legends said the First Crown had been forged before kings learned to lie, before thrones were raised on the backs of the innocent. It was not gold nor iron, but will given shape—an artifact bound to blood, sacrifice, and flame. When the last crowned ruler fell, the world burned with him.
Or so the stories claimed.
Aren turned toward her, unwrapping the cloth around his palm. The mark glowed faintly now, lines of ancient script twisting and reshaping themselves like living fire beneath his skin.
Sereth inhaled sharply.
"It's awakened," she said. "Fully."
"I know."
The mark had appeared on Aren's hand the night his village was erased. He had been ten years old, hiding beneath the floorboards as fire consumed everything he had known. When he crawled out, choking on smoke and grief, the symbol had burned itself into his flesh—searing, merciless, unforgettable.
The Ashbound had found him days later.
They called him Cinderborn.
"Then we don't have much time," Sereth said. "If the mark has awakened, the others will feel it."
Aren followed her gaze toward the far horizon, where the sky glowed faintly red even at night. The Ashbound Order hunted relics and bloodlines alike, convinced that the world could only survive if the past remained buried.
And then there were the Hollow Kings—those who sought the Crown's power for themselves.
Both would kill him without hesitation.
"Show me," Sereth said.
They descended into the ravine together.
The path was narrow, carved long ago into the rock, spiraling downward into darkness. Strange symbols were etched into the stone walls—older than the kingdoms, older than the Ashbound scriptures. Aren felt them resonate through his bones as they passed, like a distant heartbeat.
At the ravine's base lay a sealed door of obsidian stone.
It was massive, seamless, untouched by time or weather. Ash had piled high against its base, but the surface itself gleamed faintly, reflecting the glow of Aren's mark.
Sereth stopped short.
"No record speaks of a gate here," she said. "This was meant to be forgotten."
Aren stepped forward. The mark on his palm flared, heat surging up his arm and into his chest. He pressed his hand against the stone.
The world shuddered.
With a sound like cracking bone, the obsidian split, glowing veins of fire racing across its surface. The door did not open—it unmade itself, dissolving into sparks that vanished into the air.
Beyond lay a chamber untouched by ash.
Torches ignited along the walls as if breathing again after centuries of silence. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of old incense and molten metal.
At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal of black stone.
And upon it—
Aren froze.
The crown was smaller than he had imagined. Simple. Elegant. A circlet of dark metal etched with runes that shifted when viewed directly, refusing to settle into a single shape. No gems. No ornamentation.
Yet the power rolling from it was suffocating.
Sereth dropped to one knee.
Aren did not.
The crown recognized him.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears as the mark on his hand blazed white-hot. Visions slammed into him—cities rising, banners burning, a thousand voices screaming allegiance and defiance alike. He saw kings kneel and worlds break.
And beneath it all, a whisper.
At last.
Aren staggered, clutching his chest.
Sereth looked up sharply. "Aren!"
"I'm—fine," he gasped. "It's… loud."
The crown pulsed in response.
Sereth rose slowly, eyes never leaving it. "You must not touch it."
"I know."
But his feet moved anyway.
Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake—that once he crossed the final steps, there would be no return. Yet something deeper pulled him forward, a truth older than fear.
"This crown doesn't belong to tyrants," Aren said quietly. "It never did."
Sereth's voice trembled. "Power never belongs to anyone who believes that."
Aren stopped before the pedestal.
He reached out—
And the chamber erupted.
A shockwave hurled Sereth backward as ash burst from the walls like living smoke. Shadows twisted and coalesced, forming armored figures with hollow eyes and blades of black flame.
Guardians.
The last defense of the First Crown.
Aren barely had time to react before one lunged at him.
"Move!" Sereth shouted, drawing her twin blades.
Steel met shadow in a scream of sparks. Sereth fought like a storm—precise, ruthless—but there were too many. One guardian shattered under her strike; three more took its place.
Aren raised his marked hand instinctively.
Fire answered.
Not wild flame, but focused—controlled, ancient. The mark flared, and a wave of white-hot energy surged outward, tearing through the guardians like paper. They screamed—not in pain, but in release—before dissolving into ash.
The chamber fell silent once more.
Aren stared at his hand, trembling.
Sereth looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
"That power…" she whispered. "You didn't take it. It flowed through you."
Aren turned back to the crown.
"I think," he said slowly, "it was never waiting for a king."
He lifted the crown from the pedestal.
The moment his fingers closed around it, the ash beyond the ravine ignited, burning away as if swept aside by an unseen wind. Far across the world, ancient eyes opened, and forgotten oaths stirred.
The First Crown had been claimed.
And the age of ashes was ending.
Or beginning anew.