The wind howled across the valley, carrying the scent of ash and forgotten fires. Once, this place had been filled with light—villages glittering with lanterns, children laughing beneath banners of gold and crimson. Now, it was silent. Burned. Dead.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the ruined valley, his cloak snapping in the wind. In his palm lay the Ember—a tiny flicker of orange, glowing faintly like the last heartbeat of a dying world. He had guarded it for three winters, never letting it fade, never letting it slip away. For if it did, the last flame of the gods would be lost forever.
