Ash in the Veins
The streets were near empty, the kind of quiet that makes the hairs on your neck stand. Rain dripped from sagging rooftops and trickled into the gutters, carrying with it ash from a hundred unseen hearths. The city was alive with silence, and silence in these streets meant danger.
Isolde's boots splashed softly in the puddles as she walked, her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. Behind her, the footsteps had stopped. But she knew better than to think she was alone.
Her hand brushed the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. The blade was short, plain, a thief's weapon—hardly worthy of a princess who had once held swords forged in dragonfire steel. But in exile, one learned to use what one had.
"Come out," she said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart.
The only answer was the rain.
Then, from the shadows of a crooked alley, a figure stepped forward. Its face was concealed behind a mask of polished black iron, smooth except for two narrow slits where faint orange light glowed like smoldering coals. Its cloak was darker than the night itself, and where its feet touched the ground, puddles stilled as if the water feared it.
Isolde's throat tightened. She had heard whispers of such things—the Shadowborn, assassins said to be bound by blood oaths and ancient sorcery. If one of them had found her, then the parchment's warning had been no lie.
"You should not have come," she said again, this time louder.
The figure tilted its head, almost curious. Then it spoke, and its voice was neither wholly male nor female, but something hollow, like wind blowing through a crypt.
"Isolde Cindralith."
Her name. Spoken aloud for the first time in years. It was like a blade cutting open a wound she thought long scarred.
The hunter raised a hand, and the shadows around its fingers curled like smoke. The glow of its eyes flared brighter.
"They told me you were ash. But I see the ember still burns."
Isolde forced herself not to step back. Fear was a chain, and chains made prey easy to kill. She slipped her dagger free, its steel catching what little moonlight filtered through the rain.
"I don't know who you serve," she said, her words low and sharp, "but you'll regret finding me."
The masked figure chuckled, though it sounded more like cracking bone than laughter. It moved forward, each step silent, smooth. Too smooth.
Her breath quickened. She had no army. No court. No throne. Only a blade and the faint pulse of the scar on her wrist, growing hotter with every passing second.
The hunter struck.
Shadows lashed out like whips, twisting through the air toward her chest. She dove to the side, rolling across the slick cobblestones. Pain flared in her shoulder as she hit the ground, but she kept hold of her dagger. She came up in a crouch, teeth clenched, eyes locked on the figure advancing without hurry, without doubt.
It was toying with her.
"You bleed like the rest," the voice whispered, echoing. "You burn like the rest."
Another strike. This time the shadows snapped across her leg. Fire shot through her thigh as the lash cut cloth and skin alike. She stumbled, biting back a cry.
Her grip tightened on the dagger. She lunged forward, slashing at the figure's chest. The blade connected—or should have. Instead of flesh, she felt her dagger pass through smoke, the resistance like cutting fog.
The hunter's hand closed around her wrist.
Cold. Not the cold of winter, but the kind that seeped into bone, that drowned the heart's fire. Isolde gasped, her knees buckling.
"Your father's line is finished," the hunter said, its voice inches from her ear. "The Cindralith flame will gutter here, in the dirt."
And then—
The scar on her wrist burned.
Not the sting of old memory, but a heat alive and furious. It spread through her veins like molten iron, searing, unbearable. Her scream tore the night apart.
Light burst from her skin. Not gold, not orange, but white-hot flame, pure and wild. The hunter staggered back, its cloak smoking where the fire touched. Its mask hissed, glowing red at the edges.
Isolde collapsed to her knees, clutching her wrist. The flame still poured from her, spilling into the rain, turning droplets into steam. Her dagger lay forgotten at her side.
The hunter steadied itself, raising both arms now. Shadows writhed around it like serpents, hissing, striking against the light she could not control. The flames clashed with the darkness, fire and smoke twisting together in a storm of ash.
Isolde's eyes blurred with heat and rain. She did not know how she was doing this. She did not know if it was killing her. All she knew was the fire wanted out—it wanted to burn, to consume, to be free.
With a cry, she thrust her hand forward. The flames surged, a wave of white fire that roared across the narrow street.
The masked hunter raised a shield of shadows, but the fire smashed through it, engulfing the figure in a torrent of light. The scream that followed was not human—it was the shriek of something unearthly, something bound.
When the fire faded, only smoke and a half-melted mask remained. The figure itself was gone, swallowed by the shadows it had commanded.
Isolde collapsed, gasping for air. Her hands trembled. Her scar still glowed faintly, like an ember buried in ash. The rain hissed as it touched her skin, steam rising in soft tendrils.
She looked at the mask. Black iron, warped and cracked, its glowing eyes extinguished. She reached for it with shaking fingers but pulled back before touching. Some things were better left untouched.
The street was silent again, save for the rain. But silence no longer meant safety.
They knew her name.
They had found her.
And the fire in her veins would not sleep again.
She forced herself to stand, every muscle aching. Her dagger lay in the gutter, useless now. She left it there. She had no need for it anymore.
For years, she had tried to bury her bloodline. To live as a shadow. To forget the fire.
But shadows could not hide fire forever.
She drew her cloak close and limped into the night, the mask's empty eyes watching her from the stones.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight. A new day. A new hunt.
And perhaps, the first spark of a new empire.