The bells of Eldenvar's capital tolled with a hollow clang, echoing through streets slick with rain. Lucien D'Arques moved among the shadows of the old quarter, a lone figure beneath a tattered cloak, his boots splashing shallow puddles that reflected the pale lantern light. Above him, the city's spires pierced the fog like skeletal fingers, their pointed silhouettes cutting through the gray sky. Tonight, the empire celebrated—or mourned, depending on whom you asked—the fall of a noble house.
Lucien had survived. He did not know why. Perhaps fate had been distracted. Perhaps the gods themselves had forgotten him. The rest of his family had not been so fortunate. Their screams still clung to the corners of his mind, fragments of sound that refused to leave. A burning memory lodged itself behind his eyes whenever he closed them, a reminder of betrayal, blood, and fire.
He paused at the mouth of a narrow alley, the stench of wet stone and rot curling around him. In his hand, he felt the scar on his forearm beneath his sleeve—a thin, jagged line etched into his skin during the execution. It pulsed faintly, as though aware of his touch. Lucien flexed his fingers. The ember within it whispered, faint and elusive, a tongue he had not yet learned to speak.
The city beyond seemed alive with whispers. Lanterns swung in the drizzle, flickering like dying hearts, and the distant clang of steel reminded him of the world above: the Inquisition's patrols, the priests, and the hunters of heretic ash. He could not stay. The ember within him thrummed impatiently, urging him toward the catacombs beneath the city—ancient tunnels that had long been the refuge of those who sought power outside the Church's dominion.
Lucien stepped lightly over loose stones, listening to the rhythm of his own breath. The ember pulsed again, stronger this time, radiating a warmth that belied the chill in the air. A faint light flickered beneath his skin, like the glow of embers in a hearth long forgotten. And then he heard it: a voice, soft as smoke, curling through his mind.
"Lucien… Heir of the Last Flame…"
He froze. The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It was something, something that did not belong to the world above. He had heard it once before, in a dream that burned itself into memory, though the details had long since slipped through his fingers.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
No answer came, only a ripple of heat beneath the scar on his forearm. A moment later, the air shimmered, and before him, a shadow detached itself from the walls. It moved like water, formless yet deliberate, sliding across the stones without making a sound. Where it should have been empty, a shape emerged—a figure in a long coat, face obscured, one hand glowing faintly with black fire.
"Do not be afraid," the shadow said, voice curling like smoke. "You carry what the world fears: a shard of the Covenant Flame."
Lucien's heart clenched. He had heard tales of the Ashborne, mortals who had bonded with the divine remnants of dead gods, their souls slowly consumed by fire in exchange for power. He had thought them myths, stories to frighten children. And yet here he stood, scar burning, the ember whispering secrets only he could hear.
"You survived the pyre," the shadow continued, "because you were chosen… or because the flame saw potential in your blood. Either way, the House of Ashborne will come for you. They always come for those who carry the fire."
Lucien's fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger he carried. Its blade was thin, more a tool than a weapon, yet it had been enough to pry him free from the crowd that had hunted his family. Now, however, he felt the ember stir violently, as though anticipating the trials ahead.
"I don't know what you want from me," he said cautiously, "or why I should trust you."
"Trust is a luxury mortals rarely afford themselves," the shadow replied. "But heed me: the flame within you is ancient, older than the Empire, older than the Church. It remembers things you have never seen, things your ancestors swore to bury. You will learn to awaken it, to bend it to your will. But every use comes at a cost. One wrong move, and you will be little more than ash."
Lucien swallowed hard. The words were not empty threats. He had already felt the ember's hunger once—when he touched the smoldering remnants of his family's estate, a spark had leapt into his veins, leaving him dizzy and disoriented, yet strangely alive. That moment had changed him. He was no longer simply a survivor. He was something else.
The shadow extended its hand. From the darkness, a small black flame hovered above its palm, coiling like a living thing. "Come," it said. "If you wish to live, if you wish to understand, follow me into the catacombs. There, the first trial awaits. Only then will the ember speak clearly. Only then will you begin to understand your purpose."
Lucien hesitated. Above, the city slept—or pretended to. Beyond the rain, he could hear the faint clamor of celebration, bells tolling for those who had died in the name of piety. The ember pulsed once more, insistent, tugging at his very essence.
With a quiet exhale, he let himself step forward. The shadow melted into the darkness ahead, guiding him toward the narrow archway that led beneath the city. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with dust and the faint scent of decay. Stone walls rose around him, carved by hands long dead, forming tunnels that twisted like the roots of some vast, slumbering tree.
The ember burned brighter beneath his skin, sending a warmth through his veins that was both comforting and frightening. Images flickered in his mind: flames licking across a hall of mirrors, a child weeping beneath shattered lanterns, a voice whispering in a tongue older than history itself. Lucien stumbled for a moment, gripping the edge of the wall.
"You are ready," the shadow murmured. "Or at least, ready enough. The House waits. So does your destiny."
The tunnel opened into a cavern beneath the city. Black water pooled in shallow basins, reflecting lanterns that hung from rusted chains. The smell of smoke and something acrid—burned paper, perhaps, or old blood—permeated the air. In the center, a monolith of charred stone rose, its surface engraved with sigils that seemed to move when not directly observed.
Lucien stepped closer. The ember inside him flared violently, and he felt a pull toward the monolith as though some unseen thread had tethered him to its core. He reached out.
And the fire answered.