The world was burning again.
Rivan stood at the heart of a crumbling throne room, ancient stone melting beneath his feet, glowing like molten glass. Columns once carved with tales of glory now cracked and burned, falling to ash around him. Crimson flames coiled around the pillars, flickering unnaturally, as if alive—whispers in fire, eyes in smoke.
Above him, the sky was torn open, bleeding fire and darkness. A storm of ash rained from the heavens, coating everything in a fine gray veil, yet the ground pulsed with life—angry, ancient life.
And then came the voice.
"Heir of fire... reclaim what was lost... or burn with the rest."
Rivan's heart hammered in his chest. The voice didn't echo. It vibrated through the very air, crawling down his spine like frost, even as flames licked around him.
At the end of the throne room sat a figure on a scorched obsidian seat. Crowned in flame, armored in gold turned to slag, its face was hidden beneath a helm that dripped molten sparks. It radiated power—terrifying, majestic, and cruel.
Rivan tried to move, to run, to speak, but his limbs were frozen. The heat didn't burn—it possessed. His hands trembled as orange light pulsed beneath his skin like veins of magma.
His lips parted. "Who... who are you?"
The figure leaned forward, fire spilling from its mouth like breath.
"You are mine."
The flames surged. Rivan screamed.
He bolted upright, breath tearing from his lungs, eyes wide with panic. The familiar creak of wooden beams grounded him—his hut. His world. Reality.
His skin was drenched with sweat, his tunic stuck to his back. For a moment, he could still feel the throne room around him, still hear the roar of fire.
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp and clung to his forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly. A low buzzing filled his ears, like distant embers still crackling in the silence.
Again, he thought. The same dream.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his eyes. Every muscle in his body was tight. His hands still trembled. He looked down at them, almost afraid.
They were warm. Too warm.
He took in a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet. He needed air.
Outside, the village of Eldhollow slept beneath a misty sky. The moon hung low, casting a pale glow over the thatched rooftops and silent streets. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, mixing with the morning fog.
Rivan stood at the threshold of his small cottage, his arms folded tightly across his chest, trying to calm the storm within. The cold should have helped, but it didn't. Something was alive under his skin. Something angry.
He exhaled slowly, watching the breath fog in front of him. His dark eyes scanned the quiet village, searching for… something. Answers, maybe. Or just silence.
But then, a soft voice broke the stillness.
"You've seen it again, haven't you?"
Rivan flinched and turned quickly. Old Marn stood a few steps away, leaning on his cane. His hood was drawn up, hiding most of his wrinkled face, but those eyes—sharp and knowing—glinted from beneath the shadow.
Rivan swallowed. "How do you always know?"
Marn stepped forward with the slow grace of someone who carried time like a burden. "Because I saw that same throne room, once. A long time ago."
Rivan blinked. "You… dreamed it?"
"No. I survived it."
The wind shifted.
Rivan looked at him, uncertainty knotting in his stomach. "What are you saying?"
The old man didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze east, toward the misty mountains that lined the edge of the world. The clouds above them seemed to hang lower, like something ancient watched from the other side.
"There are things buried in your blood, boy," Marn said softly. "Things older than Eldhollow. Older than me."
Rivan's mouth went dry. "Like what?"
Marn's eyes found his again, and something flickered there—pity, maybe. Or fear.
"The Fire Kingdom," he said. "You've seen its fall in your dreams. What you don't know… is that you carry the last flame of its cursed line."
Rivan took a step back. "What are you talking about? I'm just a farmhand. My parents died when I was a baby. That's all anyone knows."
"That's all you were told," Marn corrected. "But truth doesn't vanish just because it's buried. And fire…" He tapped his cane against the ground. "Fire always finds a way to rise again."
Later that morning, Rivan sat alone by the village well, still hearing the old man's words echoing in his skull.
Heir of fire… cursed blood… the Fire Kingdom.
He'd always felt different. The villagers didn't say it aloud, but he'd seen the way they looked at him—cautious, wary. Like something might break loose if they got too close. Sometimes, when he got angry, strange things happened. Candles flickered. Embers jumped. Wood cracked without warning.
He used to think it was coincidence.
Now… he wasn't so sure.
He stared down at his hands. The warmth had faded, but the memory of it hadn't.
Then he heard footsteps.
Turning, he saw a stranger walking into the village—tall, cloaked in ash-gray, boots laced with travel dust. His presence was like a sharp wind cutting through the still morning. Villagers peeked from behind curtains. Even the dogs went quiet.
The man's eyes found Rivan immediately.
Rivan stood instinctively.
The stranger smiled faintly. "You look just like him," he said.
"Like who?" Rivan asked, confused.
The man stepped closer. "Your father."
Rivan's heart skipped a beat. "You knew him?"
The stranger nodded. "And I know what lives inside you."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. Carefully, he unraveled it—revealing a broken medallion. A flame-shaped crest, scorched and ancient.
Rivan's breath caught in his throat.
He had seen that same symbol on the throne in his dream.
The stranger's voice was quiet now. "You're not just having visions. You're being called."
"To what?"
The man met his gaze.
"To reclaim a kingdom. Or to watch the world burn."
To be continued...