The first ray of sunlight had barely touched the horizon when Arien Varoth arrived at Mahran. From a distance, the village seemed wrapped in a dark mist—but it was not ordinary mist; it was a thin, almost translucent smoke that lingered in the air even without any flames. The silence was dense, as if the wind itself had been banished from that place.
Passing through the stone gate, Arien stopped. The sight before him hit like a punch. The houses, once painted with shades of ochre and cedar wood, had been reduced to rubble. Everything was covered by a mantle of cold ash that did not burn but seemed to hold ancient, silent heat. Nothing moved. No birds, no human sounds. Only the muffled pulse of something that had swept through and taken everything with it.
A sharp memory struck him. The shrill laughter of his sister, Líara, as she picked flowers in the yard, echoed in his mind. Without thinking, he knelt before what remained of his home and searched through the debris. He found something: a small, bent, and cracked bronze toy car. It was Líara's favorite toy since she was little and still stumbling when she walked.
His fingers brushed the cold, deformed metal. A sharp pain pierced his chest. That was more than just an object. It was proof that everything had ended.
He stood and began to walk through the ruined village. With each step, a different memory struck him:
Memory 1:
— "Arien, hold tight!" — his father's firm, protective voice when he nearly fell from the old fig tree branch.
Memory 2:
— "Promise you'll come back quickly?" — his mother, teary-eyed, as she watched him leave for the market at dawn.
Memory 3:
— "No matter what happens, remember our oath." — Líara's smile before hugging him too tightly.
Now, all of that was empty. The memories lingered, but no one was left to share them. No bodies. No broken weapons. Only deep footprints leading to the village's edge. As if whoever was there had simply vanished… consumed by a fire without fire.
Among the debris of the old well, something caught his attention: a black stone, smooth as marble, but alive. It pulsed with a faint rhythm, almost like a heart. Arien remembered the words of Khron, the hermit from the hill:
Khron:
— "The Static Flame does not burn, Arien. It consumes what is alive. All it leaves behind is emptiness. Whoever controls this fire carries the power to steal the soul of a world."
He picked up the stone. A shiver ran down his spine. The fragment seemed far too heavy for its size. He stored it in a small leather pouch tied to his belt.
That's when he heard it.
An almost inaudible sound. The tinkling of a tiny silver bell.
His heart raced. He spun around, eyes searching through the ruins.
Arien:
— "Líara…?"
But there was nothing. Only the memory of his sister running in her light dress, the little bell sewn to her sleeve.
He fell to his knees, eyes burning. For a moment, he had hope. But it vanished, like the sound.
Ahead, among what remained of the old Varoth tavern, there were dark stains on the ground. Arien drew closer. Ashes and something more… dried blood mixed with dust. The air carried a scent of iron and burnt magic. This was not the work of ordinary war. It was the trace of something arcane, forbidden. Something from Kael'Zyth.
He clenched his fists. The name of the accursed land burned in his mind.
Arien:
— "Kael'Zyth… the torch of the desert… the fire that doesn't shine…"
The blood in his veins seemed to boil. He remembered Líara's last look. The words whispered in a thread of voice.
Líara (memory):
— "Promise me, Arien… Promise you'll find out why…"
Arien:
— "I'll find who did this. Every step will be for you. Every breath, a living promise. I don't want just vengeance… I want to understand this fire that does not burn. And discover which flame lives within me."
He stood. The sun was higher now, spreading pale light over the ruins. He slung the worn blade on his back, adjusted his quiver, and pressed the pouch with the fragment to his chest.
Without looking back, he set out north. The desert of Kael'Zyth awaited him.
Behind him, the ashes shifted gently, as if the wind had returned just to witness that first step.
The fragment pulsed. A second heart beating within his own.
And the world, silent, awaited the beginning of his journey.