They gathered at the edge of the cliff to watch him burn.
Kael stood in silence, wrists bound by chains etched with runes that glowed dull red—embers from a dying fire. Wind howled over the jagged crags of Archenfall, but the crowd behind him remained deathly still. Nobles in jeweled masks. Priests in scorched robes. Even the Queen herself had come, her silver crown gleaming like moonlight on steel.
"All flame is born with purpose," the High Pyremaster intoned. "But you, Kael of Emberhold, have none."
His voice cracked like dry wood, and the gathered audience murmured.
"You do not ignite. You do not rage. You do not burn. You are hollow." The Pyremaster stepped forward, eyes flickering with disgust. "By decree of the Crown and the Flame, you are hereby Forsaken."
A priestess moved in front of Kael. Her hands trembled as she pressed a hot iron brand into his chest.
He did not flinch.
The searing rune etched itself just over his heart, pulsing once before cooling. A perfect sigil of exile.
Then the chains fell.
Kael turned away from the fire-lit ceremony and stepped to the cliff's edge. The drop below was steep, swallowed by mist and shadow. Somewhere beyond the fog lay the Ashwilds—a wasteland feared even by the flame-born.
"Cast him down," the Pyremaster commanded.
But Kael jumped before they could touch him.
Wind screamed in his ears as he fell. His body twisted through the clouds, heart still untouched by fear, mind eerily calm.
He didn't remember the impact.
Only the cold.
Kael awoke surrounded by ash.
He was lying in a hollow beneath a twisted tree, charred black, but alive. Barely. His clothes were torn, skin scraped raw, but the rune on his chest still pulsed faintly, a dim flicker in the dark.
He sat up slowly. The Ashwilds stretched endlessly around him—gray plains littered with bones and the burnt remains of ancient trees. Nothing moved. Nothing lived.
Or so he thought.
A faint sound reached him—like wings dragging across stone.
He turned.
At the edge of the clearing, a creature emerged from the shadows. Massive. Majestic. Dying.
A phoenix.
Its feathers were scorched and falling away, embers trailing in the wind. One wing hung broken, its flame sputtering with each breath. Yet its eyes glowed with deep, ancient gold.
Kael didn't move as it limped toward him. The phoenix collapsed just a few feet away, coughing sparks.
"You are not like them," it whispered, voice crackling. "You are… stillness. Emptiness."
Kael stared. He felt nothing. No awe. No fear.
"That is why you must carry the flame."
The phoenix's eyes flared—just once—before it dissolved into fire. The blaze rushed into Kael's chest, striking the rune with a sharp, searing light.
He gasped.
Heat exploded through him. Not pain—but warmth. Memory. Emotion.
A whisper echoed in his mind, soft and strange.
"She will find you when the stars bleed fire."
Then silence.
Kael fell back into the ash, heart pounding for the first time in years.
He didn't know who "she" was.
But for the first time, he wanted to.