Ash fell before the sun rose.
Not rain.
Not snow.
Fine black particles drifted from the pale sky, settling on rooftops, skin, and stone—as if the world itself refused to let the past rest. They clung to everything they touched, dulling colors and choking warmth, coating the land in a quiet reminder that nothing in this place ever truly healed.
Rhaen Varyn stood at the edge of Cinderhollow, watching the ash settle.
The ground beneath his boots was warm.
It always was.
Even before dawn, heat lingered beneath the soil, subtle but constant, like ancient embers breathing far below the surface. The elders said it was the land's nature. The villagers said it was a curse. Rhaen had grown up knowing it as simply another fact of life—one more reason the sky never looked down on Cinderreach.
He inhaled slowly.
Ash and iron filled his lungs.
Today was not an ordinary day.
Today was Awakening.
The day when the sky judged whether a body and soul were fit to be forged—
or shattered before they ever truly began.
Rhaen already knew his answer.
He always had.
The village square filled long before sunrise.
People gathered in silence, wrapped in worn cloaks and unease. Faces were tight. Hands clenched around charms that had never worked. Mothers held children close, as if the ritual might reach out and steal them away if given the chance.
At the center of the square stood the black stone altar.
It rose from the ground like a scar—jagged, uneven, and warm to the touch. Thin fractures ran across its surface, glowing faintly before fading again, as if the stone remembered fires the world wished to forget.
Rhaen had stood before that altar before.
More times than he cared to remember.
Names were called.
Children stepped forward, one by one.
Light descended from the sky—white, clean, distant. It never touched the ground directly. It hovered just above the altar, precise and cold, like a judgment unwilling to stain itself with the land below.
Some altars glowed softly beneath the light.
Some children gasped as warmth filled their chests, relief breaking through their fear. A few smiled, though their legs trembled beneath them.
Others collapsed.
The pressure crushed them to their knees, their bodies unable to endure the sky's scrutiny. Their cries echoed briefly before being swallowed by the square.
Those who failed were pulled away.
No comfort.
No second chances.
Rhaen watched it all with calm eyes.
He recognized most of them. He had grown up beside these children—shared food, laughter, and the same ash-filled air. By nightfall, their paths would already be divided.
Some would leave Cinderhollow.
Some would stay and fade.
Some would never stand in this square again.
"Rhaen Varyn."
The name cut through the murmurs.
Whispers spread instantly.
"Him?"
"The one who always fails?"
"Why does he still come?"
Rhaen stepped forward without looking back.
He felt their gazes press against his spine—curiosity, pity, suspicion. He ignored them all. His steps were steady, measured. Too steady for someone no one expected to succeed.
As he approached the altar, memories surfaced.
Standing here at twelve.
Then thirteen.
Fourteen.
Each time, the same result.
Nothing.
He placed his hand against the stone.
It was warm.
The energy of Awakening descended.
White.
Cold.
Ordered.
It wrapped around Rhaen like a distant, indifferent presence. The sky's power brushed against his body, probing, measuring—then recoiled.
As always—
there was no response.
The altar remained dark.
One second passed.
Then two.
Murmurs rose.
A village elder frowned, his voice sharp with disappointment.
"No resonance," he announced. "His body rejects Awakening."
A wave of resignation washed through the crowd.
Some turned away.
Some sighed.
Rhaen closed his eyes.
It was over.
Again.
For a heartbeat, there was only emptiness—
then the ground shook.
The tremor rippled outward from beneath the altar.
Cracks split the stone with sharp, echoing snaps. The air thickened, turning hot and metallic, heavy enough to make breathing difficult.
This was not the sky's power.
This was not something that should exist on an Awakening day.
"Stop the ritual!" someone shouted.
Too late.
From the fractured earth, a dull red glow seeped upward—unsteady, pulsing slowly, like a dying heart struggling to beat.
Ember.
The word passed through the square like a curse.
Screams erupted.
Several children were thrown backward as the glow intensified. Their bodies convulsed—not burned by flame, but torn apart by something far crueler. Their voices cut off abruptly, swallowed by the land itself.
Cinderreach accepted them without protest.
Rhaen stood at the center of it all.
And for the first time in his life—
something answered him.
The ember drifted toward his chest.
It did not rush.
It did not hesitate.
When it touched him, there was no pain.
No burning.
No destruction.
It was accepted.
Rhaen collapsed to his knees, breath locked in his throat. His vision blurred as voices flooded his mind—broken, fragmented, heavy with emotions that were not his own.
Regret.
Anger.
Longing.
Voices of those who had fallen upon this land and been abandoned by the world.
He clenched his teeth and endured.
The warmth in his chest deepened, spreading slowly, deliberately, as if testing the space it had been given.
Around him, the villagers stumbled backward in terror.
"He's still alive…"
"The Ember didn't kill him…"
"That's impossible—"
An elder staggered, his hands shaking.
"This is no ordinary Awakening," he whispered.
"This is a forbidden Awakening."
Rhaen lifted his head.
Ash clung to his hair and skin. His eyes were dark, yet clear—like embers that had not yet decided whether to fade or burn.
The square fell silent.
"So," he asked quietly,
"did I pass?"
No one answered.
Because everyone understood the same truth—
Today, in the land of Cinderreach—long abandoned by the sky—
an Awakening that should never have existed
had chosen its bearer.
And the land of Cinderreach,
which had birthed nothing but death for generations,
had finally given rise to ember.
End of Chapter 1