The wind howled through the desolate peaks of the Varkhale Mountains, its icy breath gnawing at the stone like a hungry beast. Snow danced in spirals, shrouding the path in a ghostly white veil. Among the cliffs, wrapped in worn leathers and silence, a lone figure pressed forward—his steps steady, his eyes aflame with purpose.
Kael Draven had no name when the monks found him fifteen winters ago. Just a newborn, wrapped in blood-stained linen, lying at the edge of the temple gate with nothing but a burn mark on his chest—an ancient glyph shaped like a flame with a broken crown above it.
The monks of the Ember Monastery raised him in strict silence and fire-drenched ritual. They spoke little, but their eyes watched him always, wary. At night, Kael would hear murmurs behind temple walls—rumors that he was ember-born, a cursed soul touched by flame. Others called him the Ash Prince, though no one could say why.
Now seventeen, he had outgrown their stares. His frame was tall and lithe, honed by years of trial in the mountain's unforgiving cold. His eyes, once dull, burned like coal—hotter each year.
He reached the summit altar by dawn, breath rising like smoke as he knelt before the sacred brazier. The fire within danced violently, unnaturally, though no wood had been added in days. This was the Flame of Aetherion—ancient, eternal, the last remnant of a forgotten god.
Kael reached out, his fingers trembling. His heart pounded with a rhythm not his own.
Why do I feel drawn to you?
The moment his skin touched the flame, it didn't burn—it welcomed him.
Suddenly, visions exploded in his mind: a city crumbling in fire, skies split by thunder, a throne made of obsidian and gold—empty and waiting. He saw an army of armored titans marching through rivers of blood, a woman cloaked in stars weeping beside a broken sword, and a black dragon screaming his name.
"Kael."
He jerked back. The fire stilled. The voice was real—ancient, whispering through the wind.
He turned and saw Grand Monk Thalos standing at the edge of the summit. His staff, carved from obsidian and etched with gold sigils, glowed faintly.
"You saw it," Thalos said, not as a question. "The fire has chosen."
"I don't understand," Kael whispered.
Thalos stepped closer, eyes solemn. "You were never meant to live in shadows. The world beyond burns for your return. And now... it begins."
"What begins?"
The monk's gaze pierced through Kael's soul.
"War, boy. The war of gods and fire. And you, Kael Draven, are its first spark."
The descent from the summit was slower than the climb. The air felt heavier, as though the fire had branded more than Kael's mind—it had marked his spirit. Every flake of snow that landed on his skin seemed to hiss and melt, and the once-silent wind now carried voices, just out of reach.
Behind him, the Flame of Aetherion still flickered with unnatural brilliance.
Kael paused at the midway ridge and looked down upon the valley below. Smoke rose in thin columns from the village nestled at the foot of the mountains—Eidale, the only settlement this far north. It looked peaceful from above, but peace, he now sensed, was a mask. Something stirred beneath it. Something old. Something waking.
He found Thalos waiting for him beneath the archway that led into the monastery's lower sanctum.
"You feel it, don't you?" the monk asked, not lifting his gaze from the icy horizon.
"I feel everything," Kael replied quietly. "The fire. The pull. And the fear."
Thalos turned to him then. "Fear is good. But hesitation is death. Come—there is more you must see."
They walked in silence, their steps echoing off stone walls damp with the breath of the mountain. The passage led them deeper than Kael had ever been allowed. Down past the sanctum, beneath the sacred script chambers, through doors carved with runes that pulsed as he passed.
At last, they stopped before an ancient vault, sealed with chains blackened by time and heat.
"This vault has not been opened in over a thousand years," Thalos said. "Not since the Flame War ended and the last Ember King fell. But now…"
He laid his palm against the seal.
The chains unraveled as if alive, slithering away and vanishing into the stone. The door creaked open, revealing a chamber filled with dust, decay—and relics.
Swords made from obsidian and bone. Armor inscribed with celestial markings. A horn carved from dragon tusk. And at the center, floating inches above a stone pedestal, was a gauntlet—black as night, its fingers tipped with glowing orange.
Kael's heart hammered.
"What… is that?"
Thalos whispered, "The Emberclaw. Forged in dragonfire. Worn by kings who could command the flame."
The gauntlet pulsed, and Kael felt it calling to him—whispering his name in a voice he didn't recognize, yet knew.
He stepped forward.
As his fingers touched the Emberclaw, fire surged through his body. The room vanished in a vortex of burning stars. His mind was pulled through time—visions slamming into him like waves.
A younger version of himself standing at a throne of fire.
A woman with silver eyes screaming as chains pulled her beneath a dark sea.
A betrayer's blade slicing through shadows to strike down a crowned man—his face... Kael's face.
He gasped and stumbled back.
"Your past," Thalos said gravely. "Or perhaps... a past that still awaits you."
Kael looked at his hand, now sheathed in the gauntlet. The fire didn't consume him. It recognized him.
"I was a king," he murmured.
"You were more," Thalos said. "And will be again. But first—you must survive what hunts you."
A thunderous crack echoed from above. The monastery walls shook.
Kael and Thalos raced back to the surface, only to find flames licking the sky.
Eidale was burning.
And in the fire stood a figure cloaked in shadow, his eyes glowing violet.
He lifted his sword and pointed it toward the mountain.
"Draven," the figure growled. "The first ember has returned. Come and die like you did before."
The air screamed.
Kael stood frozen, his gaze locked on the figure below. Smoke curled around the intruder like a serpent, and flames bowed to him as if he were their master. Villagers scattered in panic, screams swallowed by the roar of burning homes. The sky had darkened, not with night—but with summoned cinders.
"Who is he?" Kael asked, voice tight with shock and heat.
Thalos did not answer immediately. His face was pale. "A shade from the flame's forgotten war. An ancient one. We prayed he would never return."
The figure raised his sword. From its blade poured black fire—not warm, but cold, sickening. The kind of fire that devoured not just flesh, but memory.
"He calls himself Varyn the Hollow," Thalos finally said. "A kingbreaker. Once a man of fire. Now… only ash."
As if hearing his name, Varyn turned his head toward the mountain—and toward Kael.
"Come down, lost prince!" he bellowed, voice echoing unnaturally. "Let me finish what I began in another life."
Kael felt the Emberclaw tighten around his fingers, responding to the challenge. The fire within his chest flared to life. For the first time in his short memory, he did not feel small. He felt forged.
"I'm going down there," he said, stepping toward the stone stair that would take him to Eidale's ruins.
Thalos blocked him. "You are not ready."
"People are dying."
"Then let them die."
Kael recoiled, stunned. But Thalos's eyes burned not with cruelty, but cold truth.
"If you face him now, you die too. And the flame dies with you."
Kael's fist clenched. "So what do I do? Hide?"
"No," Thalos said, opening a hidden panel in the altar. From it, he retrieved a small, rune-marked scroll sealed with dragon wax. "You go south, to the City of Craters. There are those who still remember your name, even if you don't. Allies, buried in time. Secrets locked in blood."
Kael stared down at the scroll, then at the burning valley. Guilt clawed at him.
"I'm not a king," he muttered.
"Not yet," Thalos said. "But kings are not born in thrones. They're born in fire and loss."
A final scream echoed from Eidale. Then silence.
Varyn stepped back into the smoke, vanishing like a ghost. The fire began to die—but not naturally. It retreated, as if commanded.
Kael turned from the peak, jaw tight.
"I'll find what you're sending me to," he said. "And when I return, I'll bury him."
Thalos watched him go, and whispered a prayer to gods long dead.
"The fire remembers, Kael Draven. And so do the shadows."
The road south was ancient—carved long before the Flame War, when dragons still soared and kingdoms bent to elemental thrones. Now, it was little more than shattered stone winding through scorched hills and skeletal woods. Kael traveled alone, the Emberclaw hidden beneath his cloak, the scroll tied to his waist, and the ghost of fire still burning behind his eyes.
Three days passed.
On the fourth, the skies opened with crimson rain.
Kael stared upward as droplets hissed against the ground. It wasn't blood—at least, not anymore. This land had been cursed during the final battle of the Ember Kings. Nature had never healed.
At sunset, he reached the cliff that overlooked his destination.
The City of Craters.
Once the heart of a thriving empire, it now lay half-buried in blackened earth, ringed by deep scars that split the ground like ancient wounds. Towering obelisks jutted from the land like shattered teeth, and fires burned in braziers that no hand had touched in centuries. The city pulsed with forgotten magic, and Kael felt it in his bones.
He descended cautiously, every step echoing louder than the last. The city streets were empty, but not abandoned—signs of movement lingered in the ash. He passed a statue of a one-eyed warrior holding a broken crown, and further down, a mural half-erased by time: it showed a boy surrounded by flames, eyes glowing gold.
The same eyes Kael now saw in his reflection.
A voice called out from the shadows.
"You walk like a king, but carry yourself like a ghost."
Kael turned, drawing the dagger at his belt. A figure stepped from the ruins—tall, robed in deep blue, face masked in silver. His presence was calm, yet dangerous, like thunder before a storm.
"Who are you?" Kael demanded.
"I am Veylan. Watcher of the Forgotten. And you, Kael Draven, are not the first flame-born to walk into this graveyard."
Kael hesitated. "You know me?"
"I know what you are," Veylan said. "And what you must become, if the world is to survive."
He extended his hand. "The Emberclaw sings. Show me."
Kael hesitated, then revealed the gauntlet. The runes along Veylan's mask glowed.
"You are bound," Veylan whispered. "The seal is broken. The Old Flame stirs."
"What is the Old Flame?" Kael asked.
Veylan turned toward the city's core, where a massive crater steamed with golden mist.
"It is the first fire," he said. "The spark that created gods—and destroyed them. And buried beneath this city... it dreams still."
Kael felt the Emberclaw pulse against his skin.
"I came here for allies," he said.
Veylan's eyes glinted behind the mask. "Then prepare, flame-born. For allies you shall find—warriors, sorcerers, outlaws. But also enemies cloaked as friends. The fire draws all things to its light... and some come only to watch it die."
From the mist, a howl rose—deep, metallic, and inhuman.
Kael turned toward the sound.
"What was that?"
Veylan whispered, "The city's guardians. The Ashbound. And they have awakened… because they smell your flame."
The howl echoed again—closer, sharper, rippling through the bones of the earth. Kael tensed, hand instinctively gripping the Emberclaw. The gauntlet pulsed in warning.
Veylan moved quickly, motioning Kael into the broken archway of an ancient temple.
"They are hunting flame," he said. "And you, Kael Draven, are burning too brightly."
Inside, the temple was a hollow husk of its former glory. Cracked stained glass windows depicted ancient battles, their colors long faded. A shattered altar stood at the center, surrounded by broken swords embedded into the floor like fallen prayers.
Kael peered through the cracks in the wall.
From the mists of the crater, they emerged.
Ashbound.
Once men, perhaps, now little more than cursed armor and fire-bound rage. Their bodies were blackened steel, fused with molten bone. Hollow helms crowned their heads, and where eyes should be, only smoke poured. Each one bore a weapon made from ruin—blades that dripped sparks, axes humming with echoes of war cries long silenced.
They moved without sound. Without breath.
Kael whispered, "What are they?"
"Keepers of the Old Flame's tomb," Veylan replied. "Made from warriors who betrayed the Ember Kings. Now cursed to guard what they once sought to steal."
One Ashbound stopped. Turned.
Its helm tilted—toward Kael.
Then it screamed.
A shriek of molten agony. The others followed.
"They've scented me," Kael said, backing away.
Veylan raised a hand. "Then face them, flame-born. Let us see if you are worthy of what sleeps below."
A portion of the temple wall exploded outward, and two Ashbound charged through, moving with terrifying speed.
Kael barely raised the Emberclaw in time. The gauntlet flared, and fire burst outward in a shield of flame, hurling one of the creatures back through the stone.
The other lunged with a cleaver of rusted metal.
Kael ducked, slashed with his dagger, but it bounced off the creature's armor like wood on steel. The Ashbound struck again. Kael rolled, then raised the Emberclaw—and willed it to ignite.
Flame erupted from his fist, engulfing the Ashbound's chest. It shrieked, armor cracking, and staggered.
Veylan moved like a storm. A blade of liquid silver flickered in his hand. One clean strike—and the creature's helm split, releasing a puff of black smoke.
"Do not aim to kill them," Veylan said coldly. "Aim to free them."
The other Ashbound recovered and lunged again—but Kael was ready. He caught its weapon with the Emberclaw, the heat melting its edge, and with a burst of fire from his palm, he struck upward.
Flames surged through the Ashbound's body, lighting its insides.
With one final wail, it collapsed.
Silence returned.
Only the low hiss of dying embers remained.
Kael stood panting, heart racing.
"I… I felt something," he muttered. "When I burned them. Like they were thanking me."
Veylan nodded. "Their souls were bound to the fire. And you… you just unchained them."
Kael looked at his gauntlet. "How far does this power go?"
Veylan turned toward the crater's edge. The golden mist still writhed, whispering secrets too old for words.
"As far as you are willing to burn."