The first poster fluttered in the wind for only minutes before the rumors spread like wildfire.
In a distant city cloaked in fog and iron, a black-robed Inquisitor unrolled the parchment in the middle of a crowded marketplace. The people scattered like crows.
He read the name aloud. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Ashborn."
In the capital of Ketharn, three Inquisitors sat in a chamber lit only by green witchlights. The lead figure, a woman with silver-threaded braids and ink-black armor, tapped the side of her goblet.
"We weren't expecting the Ashborn to surface this early," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
The man beside her, blindfolded and holding a map etched in braille, whispered, "We never expected him to survive at all."
The third Inquisitor, younger than the others and still unsure of when to speak, finally asked, "What do we do now?"
The woman leaned forward. "We hunt. And we warn the others."
Beyond the Veil Hills, where fire still trickled through cracks in the earth and red-glass trees hummed in the wind, there stood a place few dared to speak of — the settlement of the Ashen.
The people here were different. Not entirely human. Not entirely fire.
They gathered now in a circle, each one cloaked in soot-dyed robes, faces hidden by veils of ember silk. In the center stood the Emberfather — tall, ancient, his eyes twin orbs of molten gold.
A scout knelt before him, ash clinging to her breath.
"The mark has appeared again."
The Emberfather nodded once. The silence was heavy.
"A new Ashborn?" one voice whispered.
"Are you sure it's not a trick?"
The scout held up a charred scrap of parchment — the wanted poster.
The Emberfather touched it with one coal-darkened finger. The ink burned away, revealing runes beneath — runes only the Flameborn could read.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then: "Send the Watcher."
"Which one?"
The silence answered for him. Every head turned toward the edge of the circle, where a figure leaned against a tree — tall, robed in deep gray, face hidden beneath a hood. His arms were crossed, and though the firelight danced across the clearing, no warmth touched him.
The air seemed to bend around him.
"You were not meant to act yet," the Emberfather said.
The figure didn't respond.
"But perhaps the threads are moving faster than we hoped."
Still, the figure said nothing.
"Go. Watch. Guide, if you must. But do not interfere — not yet."
The Watcher gave a slight nod, turned, and disappeared into the dark.
None spoke his name. But many had whispered theories — that he was once a man, now remade by flame and time. A remnant from a future that never should've been. A shadow sent to protect... or destroy.
Far away, in the high spires of Aeridorn, the Mage Houses convened.
Seven banners hung from the domed ceiling: each representing one House — Nightglass, Emberwing, Frostroot, Ironthorn, Windspire, Dawnbreak, and Veilwake.
The chamber was carved of white stone and laced with wards so ancient the walls themselves whispered spells.
Each archmage sat upon a throne of their own element.
House Frostroot's matriarch, her skin shimmering with frost, spoke first. "We all received the same report. A child marked by fire, bearing a forgotten sigil."
House Emberwing's leader, a thin man with eyes like coal smoke, shifted uncomfortably. "If he is Ashborn, he's a threat — to us all."
House Windspire's representative, an old woman dressed in feathers, sighed. "Or a weapon."
Ironthorn's archmage, thick and scarred, slammed his fist on his stone armrest. "You want to use him? We don't even know what he is."
"We know enough," muttered the Nightglass magus. His voice echoed like oil poured over cold stone. "His mark burns with power not seen since the war of the Cinderbloods."
"Then we should act," said the woman from Veilwake, her silver hair braided with glowing beads. "We should find him before the Inquisition does."
"Too late," said Dawnbreak's emissary. "They already have."
A pause.
"Not caught him," the Frostroot matriarch clarified. "Seen him. Identified him."
The chamber grew colder.
Emberwing's master leaned forward. "Then we have but one question: do we extinguish the flame now, or let it grow — and burn the world anew?"
And somewhere in the forests between all things, as the moon rose high and the stars whispered of broken timelines and the weight of destiny, a figure moved.
He had no name that could be spoken aloud.
He was not of this time.
His skin bore the scars of fire and shadow, and his eyes flickered between red and gold.
He walked with quiet purpose, his path unseen.
He had one task.
Find the boy.
Not to kill him.
But to shape him.
Even if it meant going against the version of himself that still existed in this world — a version still loyal to laws that no longer mattered.
The time for waiting was over.
The Ashborn had awakened.
The world, whether it knew it or not, had begun to shift.
And the storm was gathering.