Morning broke with a clear sky, the storm of the night before having passed like a shadow in the dark. The world outside the inn smelled of wet earth and pine. Birds chirped as the first golden rays of light filtered through the trees edging the old road.
Kieran emerged from the inn's door feeling the weight of the previous day still clinging to his bones, though his stride was more assured now. He had risen before the others, taking the quiet of the dawn to go through a rigorous training session behind the stable. The sword felt heavier in his hands than it had the day before, but as he moved through the opening stance of his family's forms, a sense of purpose steadied his grip.
Each movement demanded balance, control, and precision. His muscles ached from the unfamiliar strain, but he welcomed the burn—it sharpened his focus. He began slow, cycling through the basic forms his father had once drilled into him, before building into more advanced sequences. As the blade cut through the air, he timed each breath to the swing, syncing his heartbeat with the rhythm of the forms. The ember at his core pulsed in tandem with his motions, rising and falling like a tide.
He could feel his mana stir as he moved, not in the chaotic bursts he'd experienced before, but in subtle waves, coiling through his limbs with every breath. It was still wild, like fire barely caged, but for a few fleeting moments, he felt it align with his intent—his blade sharper, his reflexes quicker, his senses more alert. He chased that harmony with every stroke, even as the sensation slipped through his fingers like smoke.
By the time he finished, sweat clung to his brow and steam rose faintly from his skin in the morning chill. His arms trembled from exertion, but inside, the ember burned steady, a quiet drumbeat of strength and resolve.
Sheathing his sword, Kieran took a moment to steady his breath, then turned and made his way back toward the inn. The scent of hearth-smoke and warm bread greeted him as he pushed open the door, the common room still dim in the early light. He climbed the stairs quietly, padding down the hall to check on Maera and Ysolde. As he reached their door, he paused to listen—soft breathing and the gentle creak of a bedframe told him they were still asleep.
With a quiet sigh, Kieran headed back down to see if breakfast had been laid out, stomach growling faintly with the promise of food.
Not long after Kieran settled into a quiet table with a plate of warm bread and roasted root vegetables, Maera and Ysolde descended the stairs. Ysolde greeted him with a bright, sleepy smile, her hair loosely braided over one shoulder, while Maera followed with a more composed stride, though a trace of contentment softened her usual edge.
"You're up early," Ysolde said, sliding into the seat across from him. "Trying to make us look lazy?"
"Just making sure I get the best slices of bread," Kieran replied with a smirk.
Maera chuckled softly as she sat down beside them. "If either of you wants to spar with a grumpy swordsman before breakfast, you're welcome to beat him to the training yard next time."
They shared a few light chuckles as a serving maid passed them warm mugs of tea and fresh fruit. It was a brief moment of peace, a shard of normalcy they all silently clung to.
Once their bellies were full and preparations completed, the trio stepped out into the morning light. They mounted their horses, and with the inn fading behind them, they set off down the winding road toward the capital.
The path stretched before them, flanked by dense forest and rocky ridges. Their horses trotted in rhythm with the distant chirps of insects and the occasional cry of a hawk overhead. Kieran's eyes drifted often to the trees, half-expecting danger to emerge from the shadows.
Hours passed.
In the lull between conversation and focus, Kieran practiced again, drawing on his inner flame. He breathed in slowly, feeling the mana swirl within him. It was still volatile. Like a wild beast learning its master's voice, it obeyed only with great effort.
But as they rode deeper into the forest, Kieran found himself more attuned to the world around him. The fire within echoed the world without—the warmth of the sun, the flicker of wind through branches, the pulse of life that seemed to hum beneath the surface of everything.
By midday, the road began to climb, offering a vantage point over the valley below. Maera called for a halt, and the three dismounted to let the horses rest and drink from a small brook.
As they sat, Ysolde turned to Kieran.
"You've been quiet," she said. "Since Greystead. Since the fire."
Kieran didn't respond immediately. He stared out over the treetops, watching the breeze stir the leaves like waves on water.
"I lost everything," he said finally. "But I didn't die. I think... something wants me alive. Something greater than me. I don't know what it is, or what it wants yet—but I'm not going to waste it."
Maera leaned back on one arm, chewing on a piece of dried fruit. "That sounds like something your father would've said. He always believed in purpose. Not fate, mind you—he hated that word. But purpose."
Ysolde gave a small laugh. "Sounds about right. He was always talking about building foundations that would last generations. He just never said how many fires we'd have to go through to lay them."
Kieran smiled faintly. "He never stopped believing in something better," he said. "Even when the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he'd find time to smile and keep moving. Maybe that's why I have to keep moving too."
They continued their journey with the sun cresting overhead, the shadows growing longer as the road bent toward a forest pass known to travelers as Emberroad—the halfway mark to the capital.
Before they set out, Maera had warned them both about Emberroad. Though once a well-traveled route, it had gained a reputation in recent years. Bandits had begun to use the narrow defiles and wooded turns for ambushes, and there were rumors of strange sightings—phantom lights at night, missing caravans, and stories of old ruins deep in the forest that had been stirred by unknown hands. Maera didn't trust rumors, but she trusted patterns, and the pattern of disappearances had been growing.
"Stay sharp," she'd said as they saddled their horses. "And if I tell you to run, you run. Don't think. Don't hesitate."
Ysolde glanced over, tightening the strap of her satchel. "How long will it take us to get through the forest?"
Maera considered a moment. "If we keep pace and don't run into trouble, we should be out of Emberroad by nightfall. But if we have to leave the road or double back... it could take much longer. So keep your eyes open, both of you."
With that warning etched into their minds, the forest path ahead seemed to grow just a little darker despite the daylight.
Something about the name made the ember in Kieran's chest flicker more brightly. It wasn't just a feeling—it was a pull, subtle but insistent, like a whisper only he could hear. The sensation radiated through his chest, a warmth that bordered on a warning, yet felt strangely familiar.
He furrowed his brow, pressing his hand over the spot as if trying to still the flickering flame within. Why does this keep happening? he wondered. This wasn't the first time he'd felt the ember stir in response to something—words, places, even thoughts. It had reacted before, but never quite like this.
Could it be a message? A guide? Or something more primal—an instinct baked into his bloodline?
Whatever it was, he couldn't ignore it any longer. Kieran vowed silently to start paying attention. These moments meant something. And one way or another, he would find out what.
He placed a hand over his heart and whispered the word to himself: "Emberroad."
The journey was only just beginning.