The rain fell like broken glass over the ruins of Valewind.
Lyra Vale pressed her back against a cracked stone wall as thunder rolled across the sky, the sound shaking loose shards of marble that had once formed the proud archway of the city's gate. Now it was only rubble—ashes, bones, and rain. Her hands trembled around the iron dagger she'd stolen from a soldier's belt three nights ago. The blade was chipped, the hilt wrapped in ragged cloth, but it was the only weapon she had left.
She wiped the rain from her eyes and glanced toward the heart of the ruined square. The symbol carved into the old fountain still glowed faintly even after a century of decay—three flames intertwined, the mark of House Ardentia, the line that once ruled the continent.
Her line.
The storm whispered her name.
Lyra...
She froze. That voice—soft, ancient, and terrible—had followed her since she escaped the orphanage. It came in dreams, in reflections, in thunder. She didn't know if it was real or if madness had finally claimed her like it had her mother before she vanished.
She had come to Valewind looking for answers. All she found was ruin.
"Show yourself," she whispered. "If you're real… if you ever were."
Lightning split the clouds. For an instant, the rain turned to light, and Lyra saw a shadow standing across the square. Cloaked. Tall. Watching.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
The figure moved—not walking, but gliding, as if the ground obeyed rather than resisted it. The air thickened, the rain slowing midfall, hanging like droplets of crystal in the air.
Then she heard it again—closer this time.
The blood of fire awakens.
Lyra stumbled backward, gripping her dagger tighter. "Who are you?" she demanded.
The figure's hood lifted slightly, revealing a mask of silver. No eyes. No mouth. Only smooth metal etched with glowing runes.
"I am the Keeper of the Flame," the voice said. It didn't come from the figure's mouth but from everywhere—the stones, the rain, the air itself. "You should not have come here, Lyra Vale."
"How do you know my name?"
The figure tilted its head. "You bear the mark. It burns in your blood. You feel it, don't you?"
Lyra's stomach twisted. She remembered the way her skin had glowed faintly the night she turned eighteen—orange light crawling beneath her veins like fire beneath glass. She had hidden it, thinking it was a curse.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied.
"Then why are you shaking?"
The storm's fury returned all at once—the wind howled, the fountain exploded, and the glowing symbol burst into flame. Lyra threw herself to the ground, shielding her face as shards of molten stone rained around her.
When she looked up, the cloaked figure was gone.
Only the whisper remained.
Seek the Emberheart. Before the Shadow finds it.
---
The next morning, the storm had passed.
Lyra walked through the shattered streets, her boots crunching over glass and ash. The city smelled of old magic and decay. Every corner told the same story—ruined banners, burned books, collapsed towers. Once, Valewind had been the capital of the greatest empire known to man. Now it was a graveyard for secrets.
She reached the edge of the marketplace where a small caravan was setting up. A few traders still dared to pass through these lands—smugglers, relic hunters, grave robbers. She approached one of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar down his face and a bundle of daggers strapped to his chest.
"Looking for work?" he asked without looking up.
"Looking for a way out," Lyra replied. "To the northern highlands."
He snorted. "That's Shadow territory. No one goes there."
"I'm not no one."
He glanced up, studying her for a moment. Something in her eyes must have convinced him she meant it. "Name's Korran," he said. "I've got a wagon leaving by dusk. You can ride with us if you can pay."
"I don't have coin."
"Then you can fight."
Lyra hesitated. "Fight what?"
Korran smirked. "Whatever tries to eat us before sunrise."
---
By nightfall, they were on the road.
The wagon creaked through the muddy trail, surrounded by black pines that whispered as the wind moved through them. Lyra sat beside Korran, her hand resting near her dagger. There were others in the caravan—two hunters, a silent woman wrapped in veils, and a boy no older than twelve who drove the pack horses.
The boy glanced at her. "You from Valewind?"
"I was," she said.
He looked at her as if she'd said she was from a ghost city. "That place is cursed."
"Maybe," she murmured. "Maybe not."
Korran laughed. "Don't mind him. The kid thinks shadows have teeth."
"They do," Lyra said softly.
Everyone went quiet.
The silence deepened as night fell fully. The moon rose, silver and sharp, cutting through the trees. And that was when she felt it—the same strange pressure in the air she'd felt before the figure appeared.
Something was following them.
The horses began to snort and toss their heads. The boy whispered something to calm them, but they wouldn't listen. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and blood.
Lyra stood, scanning the treeline. "Something's coming," she said.
Korran drew his sword. "Bandits?"
"No," she said. "Worse."
The shadows between the trees moved—stretched—grew.
A creature emerged.
It was twice the height of a man, its body made of smoke and bone, its face a hollow void with faint red embers where eyes should have been. Every step it took burned the ground beneath it.
Korran cursed. "Shadowspawn!"
Lyra's hand trembled, the mark on her wrist glowing faintly beneath her sleeve. The creature roared, and the sound shattered the quiet night. The hunters fired arrows, but they passed through the creature as if through mist.
"Run!" Korran shouted.
The horses bolted. The wagon lurched. Lyra fell to her knees as the creature lunged, claws outstretched. She raised her dagger instinctively—and the world exploded into fire.
A burst of flame shot from her hand, engulfing the Shadowspawn in white heat. It screamed, collapsing into ash that was swept away by the wind.
When the light faded, the forest was silent again.
Everyone stared at her.
Korran was the first to speak. "What… what was that?"
Lyra looked down at her hand. It still burned faintly, her veins glowing like molten gold beneath her skin.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I think it's only the beginning."
---
That night, while the others slept, Lyra stood alone by the dying fire. The mark on her arm pulsed softly, and in the embers she saw a flicker of the same symbol that had glowed in Valewind's fountain.
She remembered the words of the Keeper.
Seek the Emberheart. Before the Shadow finds it.
Whatever that meant, it was now her path.
She didn't know if she was chosen or cursed—but she knew one thing:
The world was changing, and her fire was waking with it.
As she turned toward the dark horizon, she saw distant lights—the mountains of the north, shrouded in stormclouds. Somewhere beyond them, the Emberheart waited.
And so did the Shadow.