The boy never forgot the sound.
It wasn't the roar of beasts or the screams of the dying — though there were many. It was the silence that followed. A silence so deep it swallowed his breath, his voice, and the fragile belief that the world was safe.
He had been ten. Just a village child with soft hands and a wide grin. The son of a baker and a seamstress. The younger brother of a rising adventurer known across the Solmire Dominion — Arlan Fael.
Their home, Duskmoor Hollow, sat on the outer edge of Solmire's forestlands, too small to warrant a guild hall, too peaceful to imagine it needed one. Until the Varnok came.
They fell from the sky that day, black shapes that tore through the clouds like shards of hate. Not beasts. Not demons. Something older. Something wrong. The Essence in the air twisted as they landed — and then the screaming started.
Arlan had rushed into the fray, a silver-ranked adventurer with a blazing spear and the confidence of a hundred battles. The boy had watched from a rooftop, trembling, clutching a dull training blade his brother had carved for him a year ago.
He saw Arlan fall.
Not die. Worse — broken. His spear shattered. His body tossed like driftwood against stone. And no one could help.
The boy had screamed, but the silence ate it.
It was only when an Origin descended that the Varnok stopped. A woman of flowing flame, her mere presence turning the tide. The boy never saw her face, only the silhouette as she burned the creatures into ash with a single spell that cracked the sky.
The battle was won. But something inside the boy was lost.
He sat at Arlan's bedside for weeks, his brother barely breathing, his body ruined beyond healing magic. And when the day came that Arlan awoke — voice a rasp, eyes filled with pain and pride — the boy made a vow.
He would train. He would ascend the Flames. He would become strong enough to stand beside the legends and not flinch when the sky burned again.
Not to become a hero.
But because when the world needed him, he never wanted to be powerless again.
⸻
Years later…
The sun crested over Elandor, the heart of the Solmire Dominion, bathing the white spires and red-roofed academies in golden light. Adventurers moved like threads through a tapestry — armored warriors, robe-clad mages, Essence-scouts — all converging on the grand central square.
Among them, now seventeen, stood Kael Fael — lean, quiet, calloused hands wrapped in training tape, and a simple badge on his coat:
Initiate: Flicker Rank – 2nd Flame
Not the most talented. Not the strongest in his class. But there was something in his eyes that made instructors pause — not intensity, but depth. Like a fire that burned slow, but never died.
Today was Selection Day — when adventurers-in-training would be evaluated by official guilds.
Kael tightened the leather strap on his glove, eyes scanning the arena. Somewhere out there, his chance awaited.
And this time, when the world burned…
He'd be ready