The city slept under a veil of mist, the cobblestone streets empty except for the whispers of the wind. High above, the towers of Ashenhold Castle pierced the night sky like silent sentinels. Most people had long given up hope of seeing anything extraordinary in their dull, mundane lives—but Ren was about to change that.
Seventeen years old, Ren had always been an ordinary boy—or so he thought. He lived in the shadows of Ashenhold's walls, surviving by his wits, unnoticed by anyone who mattered. That is, until tonight.
A faint hum echoed through the alleyway behind him, cold and alive. Ren stopped, heart thudding. His eyes darted across the empty street, but nothing moved.
Then, a spark—tiny, golden, almost playful—danced before him. He reached out instinctively. The moment his fingers brushed the spark, a wave of heat surged through his body.
Flames. Not ordinary fire, but a living, breathing inferno that wrapped itself around his hand like it had always belonged there.
Ren stumbled back. "What… what is this?" he whispered.
The flame whispered back. Not with words, but with visions—memories he had never lived. Cities burning, heroes falling, monsters clawing through night, and a single boy standing in the eye of it all, flames dancing around him, untamed, unstoppable.
It was then that Ren understood. He had inherited the Last Flame—the legendary power that had disappeared from the world centuries ago.
A loud crash shattered the night. Shadows moved along the rooftops, creatures with eyes like molten gold and claws sharper than knives. They had come for him.
Ren's pulse raced, but the flame in his hand pulsed stronger. He raised it, instinct taking over. With a flick, a torrent of fire shot forward, cutting through the first shadow like it was nothing. The creature screamed, dissolving into smoke.
Fear and exhilaration coursed through him. The flame responded to his emotions—his anger, his fear, his resolve. Each heartbeat strengthened it, and each heartbeat reminded him that this power came at a cost.
He could feel it, deep in his bones: if he used it too much, it would consume him. Not just physically, but his very soul.
"Focus, Ren," he muttered to himself. "You can do this. You have to."
The shadows regrouped, leaping from the rooftops, their numbers overwhelming. But the boy with the Last Flame did not falter. Each movement was precise, every strike calculated. Fire roared around him, a tempest of destruction against the darkness.
By the time the sun's first light touched Ashenhold, the streets were quiet. Smoke rose from the burned remnants of the creatures, drifting lazily into the sky. Ren knelt, exhausted, the flame in his hand flickering weakly.
He had survived. But at what cost?
Ren looked at his hands, at the small remnants of flame clinging to his fingers. He understood now: the Last Flame was not just a power. It was a responsibility. A choice. A burden that could either save the world or destroy him entirely.
And deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.
The shadows were gone… for now. But they would return. And when they did, Ren would be ready.
Because he was the boy who carried the Last Flame.