The wind sang through the ruins like a dying hymn.
Kael sat beneath the hollow frame of a chapel window, the last shards of its stained glass trembling in the night breeze. The moonlight caught them, scattering faint colors over the ash at his feet — pale blues, reds, and golds. They flickered like memories refusing to die.
He watched them until his reflection stared back — gray eyes rimmed with exhaustion, soot streaking his face. Beneath the torn fabric of his shirt, the faint burn mark over his heart glowed softly, pulsing with every breath. It had been quiet for months, but lately it had begun to stir again — whispering in his sleep, warming beneath his skin when storms gathered on the horizon.
Tonight, it burned.
He pressed his palm to it, wincing. "Not now," he muttered under his breath. "Not again."
The air thickened — the scent of smoke, faint but familiar. The fire never truly left him; it followed, a ghost chained to his blood. He'd tried to smother it, drown it, even carve it once. But you can't kill what remembers you.
A sound broke the stillness — hooves on stone, distant voices. Kael tensed, gripping the iron shard beside him. Torchlight spilled through the broken archway, painting the ruin's walls gold.
"Check the south wing," someone ordered. "The Inquisition wants no stragglers."
Kael's pulse quickened. Inquisition.
He'd seen their kind before — their robes lined with silver, their eyes bright with borrowed conviction. They called themselves purifiers, but they burned more than they saved.
He crawled toward the collapsed altar, sliding through the rubble until his back hit the wall. One wrong move and they'd smell the smoke on him.
The light grew nearer. He could see their shadows now — three figures, helmets gleaming. One bent near the cracked altar, running a gloved hand along the scorched floor.
"Fire marks," the man murmured. "Old… but recent enough."
The others spread out. Kael held his breath. The mark beneath his skin throbbed harder, reacting to their torches — to the fire. He bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Then, a sudden flare — the nearest torch flamed bright, too bright. It roared upward, white-hot. The soldier cursed, dropping it as the flame spiraled unnaturally toward the ceiling.
Kael didn't move. He didn't need to. The fire knew.
A gust of wind swept through the chapel, scattering ash and embers like stars. The soldiers panicked, shouting. Kael slipped through the back wall, through cracks he'd memorized in nights of hunger, vanishing into the wild.
Behind him, the chapel burned again — quietly, beautifully, as if the world was remembering something it wasn't supposed to.
He didn't look back.
The mark over his heart dimmed, and for a moment, he could almost hear a voice beneath the crackle of distant fire —
a voice that sounded like memory.
⸻
He ran until his lungs tore and his legs ached, until the ruins were nothing but a faint orange glow behind the trees. The forest greeted him with cold silence — only the whisper of dead leaves and the rhythmic pound of his own heartbeat.
When he finally stopped, he fell to his knees in the mud and pressed both hands to the earth, trembling. The heat beneath his skin was fading now, leaving behind only the ache — a hollow, burning emptiness that felt too much like grief.
He didn't know how long he stayed there. The moon climbed higher, pale and watchful. The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint sound of bells — distant, measured, imperial. The kind that didn't belong to ruins or wilderness.
Kael raised his head.
Across the valley, half-shrouded in fog, rose the lights of a city — tall spires gleaming faintly with gold. A banner flapped atop the nearest tower, bearing the mark of Solmere's sunburst sigil.
He'd heard of this place once, whispered among scavengers and wanderers —The Imperial Academy of Faith and Science .
A place where orphans were reborn into loyal servants of the Empire.
A place where they taught that fire was sin — and sin could be trained.
Kael stared at it for a long time, his breath clouding in the cold. The mark beneath his chest gave a single, faint pulse — almost like a heartbeat answering another.
He exhaled shakily. "Then that's where you want me to go."
The forest didn't answer. Only the echo of his voice and the low hum beneath his ribs.
He stood, wrapping his torn cloak tighter, and began walking toward the distant lights.
Each step took him farther from the ashes — and closer to whatever the fire wanted next.
Behind him, the last embers of the chapel flickered once more…
then died.
⸻
INTERLUDE — THE ROAD TO SOLMERE
The journey took days — maybe weeks. Kael lost count after the first few nights.
He followed the trade roads north, through valleys veiled in fog and villages that spoke the Empire's prayers like ritual song. Every tavern fire made his chest tighten; every sermon about purity scraped at his mind like rust.
Once, he passed an Inquisition caravan. He hid among the wheat until they were gone. Their banners carried the same sunburst that waved above the city — gold on white, immaculate and cruel.
By the time Solmere's spires rose before him, Kael's boots were worn thin and his hunger was hollow enough to echo. Yet beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred — the same faint warmth beneath his ribs.
The fire was guiding him.
Or luring him.
He couldn't tell which.