Kaelen didn't sleep that night.
He lay curled beneath a hollow pine at the edge of the ridge, staring into the gray sky. The ember, wrapped in linen and pressed against his chest, pulsed with a warmth that defied the cold. It beat like a second heart. He didn't understand it — not yet — but he felt its presence in his bones. Heavy. Alive.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the tower from the vision. The blade of starlight. The girl with the eyes like dying stars.
And fire. Always fire.
By dawn, a thin silver mist blanketed the path. He packed in silence, chewing on hard biscuit and dried meat that tasted more of dust than food. Then, with the ember bound tightly to his chest and his father's sword at his side, he began the descent.
The path wound lower into the mountain's shadow, twisting through ravines and narrow clefts where frost clung to the stone like leeches. Trees returned slowly — thin, leafless sentinels that creaked in the wind. Time passed strangely. Birds did not sing. Even the crows were silent.
Then, just before midday, Kaelen stumbled into the valley.
It was a shallow bowl of land, ringed with ice-bitten rocks and half-dead trees. At its center stood a circle of ancient pillars, blackened by time. Some leaned, others had cracked entirely. Each was carved with runes — old and deep — that shimmered faintly under the mist.
Kaelen stepped cautiously between them. The air inside the circle felt still, too still, as if sound dared not enter. The ember flared once at his chest, and the ground beneath his feet hummed with forgotten power.
Then he heard it.
A whisper. Barely a breath:
"Blood of fire... wake…"
He spun, sword out. Nothing.
"Do not run… do not forget…"
His knuckles tightened on the hilt. "Who's there?"
No response — only wind brushing the grass.
Then, a flicker. In the center of the stones, a figure appeared — not walking, not moving, but being. It was a tall silhouette cloaked in deep violet, face shadowed by a hood. Gold eyes, burning and ancient, stared out at him. Not a person. A projection.
Kaelen didn't breathe.
The figure raised one hand and spoke in a voice like bells struck deep underwater.
"You have taken the Ember. Then you are marked."
Kaelen swallowed. "Marked by what?"
The figure tilted its head, like someone regarding a long-lost heirloom. "The world remembers you, Kaelen of Thornmere. Even if you do not remember yourself."
He shook his head. "I'm just a blacksmith's son."
"No," the voice said, soft and final. "You are the flame's heir. Born of a forgotten line, bound by fire and oath. The blood remembers."
Then the vision shattered like glass.
Kaelen staggered back as the mist thickened. The pillars groaned. The sky turned darker.
And something rose from the shadows.
It crawled from beneath the earth itself — a hunched, jagged shape with arms too long and a spine that cracked as it stood. Its body was woven from ash, smoke, and charred bone. It had no mouth, yet it breathed, hissing like a dying fire.
Kaelen backed away, sword drawn. "What are you?"
The creature gave no answer. It only stared — coals burning in the hollows where eyes should be. Then it lunged.
Kaelen barely parried the first blow, the shock rattling up his arms. The second strike came faster. He ducked, rolled, came up behind a fallen pillar. The creature screamed — a sound like iron tearing through flesh.
He slashed, but his blade passed through smoke. The creature hissed in laughter.
Desperate, Kaelen fumbled for the ember. It pulsed in his hand.
The Shadekin recoiled.
Kaelen stepped forward, holding the ember high. "You want this?" he yelled. "Come and get it!"
The ember flared — a brilliant flash of gold and red. The creature shrieked as if burning from the inside. It clawed at itself, stumbling backward — and exploded into a cloud of embers and dust.
Silence.
Kaelen stood panting, his hand glowing faintly from the ember's touch.
He dropped to his knees. "What in the gods' name is happening…"
"That," said a voice behind him, "was the best 'almost dying' I've seen in weeks."
Kaelen whipped around, sword raised.
A boy — maybe nineteen — sat atop a mossy boulder nearby, legs swinging casually. He wore a faded red cloak with thorn embroidery, and a worn sword rested across his lap. His dark hair was tousled, and he grinned like he'd just won a bet.
"You're fast," the boy said. "Not graceful. But fast."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"Name's Aelric. Mercenary. Card shark. Occasional hero. And you…" He nodded at the ember. "You're carrying something dangerous."
Kaelen stood slowly. "How long have you been following me?"
"Long enough to know that thing in your chest? It's waking up the world. Which means a lot of people are going to want it. And most of them won't ask nicely."
Kaelen didn't lower his sword. "Why are you here?"
Aelric's grin faded slightly. "Because I was paid to find you. But I didn't know you'd be... this."
"This?"
"Alive. Holding the Ember. Making old ghosts talk." Aelric slid off the rock. "You're supposed to be a myth."
Kaelen's sword didn't waver. "And what are you going to do with me?"
"Depends." Aelric reached slowly into his belt pouch and tossed a coin. It flipped once in the air, caught the light — and landed perfectly upright in his palm. "You're not dead. Which is a good start."
"You were sent to kill me."
"Technically," Aelric admitted. "But I don't take jobs from tyrants anymore."
"King Maevor?"
Aelric tilted his head. "You do know things. Interesting."
Kaelen finally lowered his sword. "What do you want?"
"Same thing as you, probably. Answers. Survival. Maybe a little revenge."
Kaelen eyed him warily. "Why help me?"
Aelric shrugged. "Because the last person who held that ember burned the world. And I'd rather see what happens when someone tries to fix it instead."
A pause stretched between them.
Then Kaelen sighed. "Fine. But no tricks."
Aelric offered his hand. "Scout's honor."
Kaelen took it — and felt something shift in the wind. Like a new page turning.