The air reeked of burnt pine as Kaelen stepped over the crumpled body of the scout, his boots crunching through the brittle remains of a shattered campfire. The forest around him pulsed with a low, guttural hum, like the earth itself was breathing through broken teeth. He didn’t look back. The village had been a lie, its thatched roofs and laughter all smoke and mirrors, and now the weight of his own blood ran cold in his veins. A week ago, he’d been a farmer’s son, tending to cabbages and dreaming of the sea. Now he was a fugitive, his hands stained with ash and secrets.
The path ahead was a jagged scar through the trees, its edges frayed by claw marks and fire. Kaelen’s fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at his hip, its blade etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. He’d taken it from the dead scout, a man who’d once called him friend. The memory came unbidden—a laugh, the scent of roasted venison, the way the man’s eyes had narrowed when Kaelen asked about the Ember of Elarion. Now that man was a heap of ash, and Kaelen wondered if the ember was worth the price.
He stopped at the edge of a clearing, where the trees thinned and the sky bled into a bruised purple. A figure stood in the center, cloaked in shadows that moved like liquid. Kaelen’s breath hitched. The figure turned, and for a heartbeat, he saw the face of his father—wrinkled, lined with sorrow, and yet unmistakable. Then the illusion shattered, and the figure spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all, more like the creak of old wood.
“You carry the mark,” it said. “The land remembers.”
Kaelen’s hand tightened on the dagger. “Who are you?”
The figure tilted its head, as if considering the question. “A whisper in the wind. A shadow in the fire. You will find your answers where the stars die.”
Before Kaelen could respond, the figure dissolved into a swirl of ash, leaving behind a single charred feather. He picked it up, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the dying fire. The ember was real. And it was waiting.
—
The ruins of Vareth’s Spire loomed ahead, its once-proud towers now skeletal against the sky. Kaelen’s boots echoed against the cracked stone as he stepped into the heart of the ancient city, where the air smelled of rust and forgotten prayers. The Ember of Elarion was said to be hidden here, buried beneath the bones of a world that had long since turned to dust. But Kaelen wasn’t alone.
A low growl rumbled through the ruins, and Kaelen spun, dagger raised. From the shadows emerged a creature that should not have existed—a beast of sinew and shadow, its eyes gleaming like embers in a funeral pyre. It moved with unnatural grace, its claws scraping against the stone as it closed in. Kaelen’s heart pounded, but he didn’t run. He’d come too far for that.
The creature lunged, and Kaelen twisted aside, slashing at its side. The blade bit deep, but the wound closed almost instantly, oozing black ichor. The creature snarled, and Kaelen realized with a sickening jolt that it wasn’t just an animal—it was a guardian, a remnant of the old world’s fury. He had to outthink it, not outfight.
He darted between the crumbling pillars, his breath ragged. The creature followed, its growls echoing through the ruins. Then, a flash of movement—a figure in the corner of his vision. Kaelen turned, and for a moment, he thought he saw her: Lira, the girl from the village, her hair wild and her eyes wide with fear. But when he blinked, she was gone.
The creature struck again, and Kaelen barely dodged. His fingers brushed against something cold and metallic—a broken sword half-buried in the dirt. He yanked it free, its blade rusted but still sharp. The creature lunged, and Kaelen swung with all his strength. The blade found its mark, slicing through the beast’s neck. It let out a final, guttural scream before collapsing into a pile of ash.
Kaelen stood over the remains, his hands shaking. The ember was close. He could feel it, a faint heat in his chest, like a second heartbeat. But the ruins were not done with him yet.
—
The chamber beneath Vareth’s Spire was a tomb of stone and silence. Kaelen’s torch cast flickering light against the walls, revealing carvings of ancient battles and celestial maps. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something older—something that made his skin prickle. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and on it rested a single ember, glowing faintly like a dying star.
Kaelen approached, his breath shallow. The ember pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and as he reached out, the ground trembled. The walls groaned, and the carvings began to shift, revealing a hidden passage behind the pedestal. A voice echoed in his mind, not spoken but felt: *”The ember is not a gift, but a burden. To claim it is to awaken what was sealed.”*
He hesitated. The village, the scout, the creature—all of it had led him here. But what if the ember was a trap? What if it was never meant to be found? His fingers brushed the ember’s surface, and a surge of heat shot through him, not painful but electric, like a current of lightning. The chamber erupted in light, and the walls dissolved into a cascade of fire and shadow.
When the light faded, Kaelen stood in a different place—a vast plain under a blood-red sky. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and something sweet, like burnt sugar. In the distance, a city of obsidian towers rose from the earth, its spires reaching toward the heavens like jagged teeth. The ember glowed brighter in his hand, and he knew, without understanding how, that this was the heart of the world’s death.
A voice called his name, low and resonant. Kaelen turned, and there she was—Lira, but different. Her eyes were voids of starlight, her form flickering between solid and shadow. “You found it,” she said, her voice a harmony of whispers. “But you must choose. The ember can restore what was lost… or consume what remains.” She extended a hand, and in her palm, a second ember pulsed, identical to the one in his grip.
Kaelen’s mind reeled. The village, the forest, the creature—all of it had been a test. The ember was not a key, but a mirror. And he was the one who had to decide what to become.
—
The journey back was shorter than the one there. Kaelen carried the ember in his hand, its heat a constant companion. The world around him shifted as he walked, the trees bending toward him, the wind whispering his name. He passed through villages that had never existed, cities that crumbled as he neared them. The ember was a beacon, a wound in the fabric of reality.
When he finally reached the edge of the forest, the sky was clear, and the air smelled of rain. The village was gone, reduced to ash and memory. Kaelen stood at the threshold, the ember burning in his palm. He could feel the weight of his choices—what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he’d become. The ember pulsed again, and he knew that this was not the end.
He closed his eyes and let the ember go. It fell into the earth, and for a moment, the world held its breath. Then, a single spark rose into the air, scattering into a thousand tiny lights that danced across the sky like fireflies. Kaelen watched them fade, feeling something inside him shift. The ember was not lost—it was free.
He turned away from the forest, his path uncertain but his purpose clear. The world was broken, but it was not beyond repair. And somewhere, in the silence between heartbeats, the ember waited for the next one to find it.
