Ashfall was not a city.
Not yet.
It was a fortress built on desperation—wedged between jagged peaks, shadowed by a dead volcano that hadn't breathed fire in centuries. Black spires of salvaged stone jutted upward like broken teeth, scaffolding still clinging to half-finished towers. Smoke bled from crude chimneys, and flame sigils glowed weakly from hastily etched runes.
But in the darkness, it stood.
Kael arrived at its outer gate after three days of silence and snow. The wolf had vanished at the edge of the mountains, disappearing without sound, leaving him to climb alone. His body ached. The cold gnawed at his limbs. But the fire inside him—flickering and uncertain—held on.
The guards didn't recognize him.
They saw a wanderer: soot-stained, half-starved, eyes too bright for a sane man. They raised spears, fire-wrought, tips glowing faintly with emberlight.
Kael didn't flinch.
"I'm Ashborn," he said simply.
That was all it took.
The guards exchanged a glance. Then the gate creaked open.
Ashfall's heart was chaos.
Dozens of tents and shelters lined the inner courtyard. Refugees huddled near open flame pits, whispering of falling stars and frost spirits that walked like men. Soldiers trained in makeshift yards with blades wrapped in flame-slicked cloth. Blacksmiths cursed and hammered stolen metal, trying to reforge a legacy that had died with the Ember Monastery.
Kael walked among them unnoticed.
Until someone saw his eyes.
"Brightborn," a voice hissed.
He turned.
A girl stood behind a broken pillar, eyes narrowed, hand on the hilt of a curved dagger. Her clothes were practical—layered leather, ember-scarves, a single pauldron marked with the sigil of Vael'Takar: twin flames crossed by shadow. She couldn't have been older than him, but her posture said soldier, not child.
"You don't belong here," she said flatly.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "I just walked through your front gate."
"That gate's not mine."
"And you are?"
She hesitated. Then:
"Lira."
The name rang familiar, though he couldn't say why.
She studied him like a puzzle. "Your flame's off. It's twisted."
Kael tensed. "What do you mean?"
"It doesn't speak like ours." Her hand hovered near her blade. "You're either something new… or something broken."
He stepped closer. "The fire's waking. I felt it at the monastery. I saw what the frost did there."
Lira's face changed.
"You survived Emberhold?"
He nodded once.
She looked like she might punch him—or fall to her knees.
Instead, she turned sharply. "Come with me."
Lira led him past the forges, through a narrow tunnel carved into the mountain's spine. The air shifted—warmer, but heavy, like breathing through smoke. Strange glyphs pulsed faintly on the stone walls, old flame wards used for divine containment.
They reached a chamber shaped like a wound in the earth.
In the center stood a pyre.
Not lit. But alive.
It pulsed like a heartbeat—deep crimson, flickering without fire. Surrounding it were figures in black and red robes, their faces hidden. One stepped forward: an older man with hair like ash and eyes like boiling pitch.
"Another Ashborn," he said, voice low.
Kael frowned. "You know what I am?"
"We guessed. You've been… singing in the Flame's sleep."
Kael's blood chilled.
"You heard that?"
The man gave a tired smile. "The gods may be dead, but their fire still dreams. And you, Kael, are loud."
Lira looked stunned. "You knew his name?"
The old man nodded. "Names are the last thing fire forgets."
Kael's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
"I am Brother Cynen," the man replied. "Last Flamekeeper of the Second Order. I served Ashira before the Choir came."
He stepped closer, expression hardening.
"And if you are truly Ashborn… you're either our salvation…"
He paused.
"Or the second coming of the Fire That Burned Too Bright."