The Awakening Ash
Caelan stepped cautiously into the ruins, the crumbling stones cold beneath his boots. Every corner seemed alive with shadows, curling and twisting as if watching him. Ash drifted through the air, settling on his shoulders and clinging to his hair. It smelled faintly of smoke, old magic, and forgotten memories.
The scroll in his satchel pulsed, a heartbeat against his side, warm and insistent. The words on its pages seemed to shift under his gaze, as though the ink responded to his presence. He pulled it out, unfurling it carefully. Symbols glimmered faintly, connecting lines he had never noticed before. Something deep inside him recognized them.
A low hum filled the ruins, vibrating through the stones and into his bones. The sound grew louder with each step, rising like a chorus of whispers. Memories not his own flooded his mind: a city of towering spires, streets lit with magic, warriors and scholars alike moving as one under a golden sun. And then, the collapse—the fire, the ash, the screams.
He stumbled backward, clutching the scroll. "This… this can't be real," he whispered. Yet every fiber of his being told him otherwise.
From the shadows, a faint figure emerged—tall, cloaked, its face hidden beneath a hood. Caelan froze. The presence was silent but commanding, almost familiar. His pulse raced.
"You shouldn't be here," a soft voice said, echoing in the emptiness. It was neither threatening nor welcoming. Just… warning.
"I have to know," Caelan replied, voice trembling slightly. "I need to understand what happened. What was lost."
The figure stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to bend around them. "You carry their blood," it said. "The ash remembers you. And the world… will remember soon enough."
Before he could ask more, the ground beneath his feet trembled. Dust and ash fell from above as a sudden crack split the courtyard. Something moved in the darkness—a shadow, larger than any man, twisting and writhing like a living flame.
Caelan felt heat spike in his chest. The scroll pulsed violently, almost burning against his palm. Memories surged, not his own, but they flowed through him: a warrior swinging a sword, a scholar chanting words of power, a city alive and vibrant, then crushed under ash and fire.
The shadow shifted, and for a fleeting moment, he saw eyes—glowing, endless, ancient. It watched him, and Caelan knew instinctively that it was testing him, waiting for a recognition, a spark only he could give.
Fear rose, but so did something else: resolve. He stepped forward, lifting the scroll like a shield, feeling the warmth of the ash magic respond. Lines of light traced along his fingers, crawling up his arm, weaving into his very being. He could feel power awakening within him, raw and unrefined, demanding control.
"You are the heir," the hooded figure whispered again. "And the Realm remembers."
The shadow recoiled, then dissolved into ash, scattering across the stones. Silence fell. The wind through the ruins carried a strange song, faint but persistent, like a heartbeat of the past calling out to the present.
Caelan's knees shook, but he stood taller. His life had changed in a single night. He had touched the past, and the past had touched him back.
He glanced at the scroll. Its ink no longer shimmered faintly—it glowed steadily, guiding him deeper into the ruins. Somewhere beyond, secrets waited. Danger waited. And perhaps, answers.
He stepped forward into the darkness.