The rain came down in slow, drizzling sheets over the crumbling rooftops of Black Hollow.
Once a thriving mining town nestled between the jagged Ironspire Mountains, it had long since rotted into a collection of hushed shadows and empty promises. The veins of silver that once made it rich were now dry, and the forges cold. Only the desperate, the forgotten, and the damned remained.
Fires flickered in hearths that had seen better years. The cobbled streets were slick with grime, each puddle reflecting the decay of a town left behind by time.
Few dared walk those alleys at night.Fewer still with hope in their hearts.
Kael crouched beneath a crooked awning outside the ruins of the old smithy, tugging his threadbare cloak tighter. The cold bit into his bones, and hunger gnawed at his gut like a dull blade.
He was sixteen winters old, though he looked younger — wiry and sharp-eyed, with soot-stained skin and matted hair. An orphan, raised by no one but the gutter and the rats. He had learned three rules:Trust no one. Speak only when necessary. Never let them see you cry.
Across the square, a candle glowed in the baker's window. Three loaves sat behind the glass, still steaming from the oven.
Kael's stomach growled.He considered the risk. A stone to the window, a quick snatch-and-run...But Old Brinna had sharp eyes and a sharper ladle.
With a sigh, he turned back toward the alley where he slept. But then—Light.
A glow shimmered behind the chapel's boarded windows. Not fire. Not candlelight.Something else.
The chapel had been sealed since the priests vanished during the Purge. Bricked shut. Forgotten. Haunted, some whispered.
And yet, Kael saw it clearly.A soft, pulsing radiance — golden and warm, like the beat of a heart.
Curiosity wrestled with instinct.Then, quietly, Kael slipped across the square.
He found a loose board in the side wall. With careful fingers, he pried it back and crawled inside.
Dust hung heavy in the air. The roof sagged like a weary sigh. Moonlight filtered through the gaps, silvering moss-covered pews and shattered glass.
And at the altar — or what was left of it — hovered the light.
A single ember, no larger than a coin, floated above a cracked stone pedestal.
It pulsed. Gentle. Alive.
Kael stepped closer. It radiated no heat, made no sound. But it called to him — silent, insistent.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the glow, a shock of memory surged through him —Not his own.
Visions flooded his mind:
Cities of silver towers.
A woman with molten gold eyes.
A sword blazing in darkness.
A name, spoken by wind and fire: "Emberborn."
Kael collapsed to the floor.When he opened his eyes, the ember was gone.No—not gone. Inside him.
A warmth pulsed in his chest.Soft. Steady. Like a second heartbeat.
He fled into the night.
Morning came. The skies had cleared, but Black Hollow had changed.
People whispered of strange dreams. Of warmth in the air.Of something watching.
Kael stayed to the woods, hidden. He saw flashes behind his eyelids. Felt sparks dancing beneath his skin.And the voice returned:"Seek the flame. Rekindle the world."
He healed faster. Moved quicker. His senses sharpened.But fear settled in.
Someone would come for this.
On the fifth night, beneath a sleeping elm, someone did.
A figure stepped into the clearing.Tall. Cloaked in black. Unmoving.
Kael knew instantly: not human.
The figure spoke."The ember lives again. The world will burn… or be reborn."
Kael rose, heart pounding. "Who are you?"
"A Watcher. One of many. We have waited long for the flame's return."
"What do you want?"
"To see if you are worthy."
Then — as if made of ash — the figure vanished.
Kael stood alone in the dark.The ember pulsed within.
And so, as dawn painted the sky with fire, Kael turned from Black Hollow, a stolen cloak on his back and a spark of ancient magic burning in his chest.