Chapter 5 – The Villain in the Dark
By Victor Simdrix
Far from Emberfall, where forests of ashwood gave way to the blackened wastelands of the north, the air carried no birdsong, no laughter—only the hiss of dying winds. Here stood the ruins of Dreadspire Keep, a fortress shattered centuries ago in the war against the Ash Wraith. Its stones were cracked and charred, its towers broken like jagged teeth.
Yet tonight, the keep stirred again.
In the shattered throne hall, shadows gathered where no torches burned. They whispered like snakes, sliding across the floor until they coiled around a figure seated upon the broken throne.
Malakar the Hollow Flame.
Once, he had been a Flamebearer—a guardian sworn to keep the Ember pure. But ambition had gnawed at him, and when the Wraith offered whispers of boundless power, he had listened. Now his flesh was pale, streaked with veins of glowing emberfire that pulsed faintly in the dark. His eyes burned like hollow coals, and when he spoke, his voice was both a man's and something more.
"They fear her," Malakar murmured, gazing into a fragment of obsidian that pulsed with red light. Within its surface shimmered the image of Emberfall's hall—the trial, the fire swirling around Nyra, the girl standing unburned. His cracked lips twisted into a smile.
"The cursed child," he said softly. "No… not cursed. Chosen."
Around him, his servants stirred—wraithkin clad in ragged cloaks, their faces hidden by bone masks, their hands tipped with claws blackened by shadow. One hissed, "Master, shall we strike now? She is weak, untrained."
Malakar rose from the throne, his shadow stretching unnaturally tall across the ruined walls. "Not yet. A spark must be fanned before it can ignite a forest. She does not know what she carries. When she burns, she will burn everything. And then…" His hand clenched into a fist, emberfire flaring between his fingers. "…then the seal will break, and the Ash Wraith will walk again."
He stepped down the cracked steps, his cloak of living smoke trailing behind him. At his command, the wraithkin knelt, their heads bowed low.
"Spread through the villages," Malakar ordered. "Whisper her name in fear. Turn their hearts against her. When they cast her into exile, she will be mine to claim."
The wraithkin hissed in unison, vanishing into the shadows like smoke on the wind.
Malakar lingered a moment longer, gazing again into the obsidian shard where Nyra's defiant figure flickered. For a heartbeat, something almost human crossed his face—not admiration, but hunger.
"You will not know whether you are savior or destroyer," he whispered to her image. "But I will. For I will make you both."
Then the shard cracked, spilling sparks into the air, and the hall fell silent again.
---
Back in Emberfall, Nyra awoke in the dead of night, sweat clinging to her skin. Flames flickered faintly at her fingertips, though she had not called them.
In her dream, she had seen a man cloaked in shadows, eyes burning like coals, whispering her name.
She pressed her palms to her chest, her heartbeat thundering. The Ember whispered, restless, like a caged beast.
And though she had no words for it yet, Nyra knew this truth deep in her bones—
Something in the dark had noticed her.
And it was coming.