Chapter 5: Ashes in the Wind
The stars above Elyndra shimmered like scattered diamonds on black silk. In the village of Arin'Thal, the Ember Well still glowed faintly, a reminder of the fire that burned in the heart of the newcomer—Po, the Flamebreaker.
But far from the gentle flicker of firelight and the whisper of trees, another kind of light flared—a dark one.
A city made of obsidian towers and iron bridges stretched beneath a bruised sky. At its center stood a cathedral of bone and smoke, its spires glowing with sickly green flames. This was Dravarn—a place the villagers of Arin'Thal only spoke of in fear.
And within Dravarn, a man sat on a throne of blackened skulls, draped in crimson robes that shimmered like dried blood. His eyes were pale blue fire, and his breath turned the air to frost.
He was known as Lord Varik.
A silver-masked servant approached, bowing low.
"My lord," the servant whispered. "It is true. The Thread has pulled someone new into the weave. A boy. He bears the Flame."
Varik's fingers twitched on the armrest. "A new thread?"
The servant nodded. "And the Ember Well… named him Flamebreaker."
At that, the silence grew heavier.
Then Varik laughed—low and cold, like distant thunder in a frozen valley.
"After all these centuries," he said. "The world dares choose another."
He stood, and the frost beneath his feet cracked.
"Send the Hounds. I want the boy brought to me. Alive."
"But, my lord… the Flamebreaker is said to—"
"Alive." Varik's voice cracked like a whip.
The servant bowed deeper. "Yes, Lord Varik."
—
Po didn't sleep that night.
He had returned to the small hut given to him by Kaelen, but his body thrummed with energy. Not just from the training—but from something else.
A pressure in the air.
Like a storm building just beyond the veil of reality.
He sat outside, legs crossed, breathing slowly. He tried to steady his thoughts, but his mind wandered.
Flamebreaker.
He hated how the word followed him everywhere now—whispered by villagers, etched into glances, heavy in every conversation.
He didn't feel like a breaker of anything.
"Can't sleep?"
Po looked up. Thorne stood nearby, holding two cups of something steaming.
Po nodded. "Didn't know people here drank tea."
Thorne smirked and handed him a cup. "It's called Emberleaf. Grows only near the Well. Helps with Flame control. Or so the elders say."
Po took a sip. It tasted sharp and earthy, but oddly calming.
"I've been meaning to ask," Po said. "You and Kaelen—you both talk like you've been through something similar. Touched by the Flame. What was it like... for you?"
Thorne stared into his cup for a long time before answering.
"My village burned when I was ten," he said. "Bandits. No one came to help. I hid under a wagon and watched everything turn to ash. That night, I begged whatever gods would listen to give me power."
"And they answered?" Po asked.
"No." Thorne looked at him, eyes hard. "The Flame did."
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Thorne stood. "We don't choose the Flame. It chooses us. But it always costs something."
Before Po could respond, a horn blew in the distance.
Then another. Then screams.
Po leapt to his feet. Villagers ran through the roots, shouting, calling for aid.
Kaelen appeared beside them, her silver blade already drawn. "They've come. Hounds of Dravarn."
Thorne swore. "Here? Already?"
Kaelen's eyes were sharp. "They move faster when the Flame rises. Po—they've come for you."
"Why?" Po asked, heart pounding.
"Because your Flame threatens their master's grip on fate."
The sky above Arin'Thal darkened unnaturally. Clouds gathered, not of water—but of smoke. A howl split the night, deep and unnatural.
Then they saw them.
Black shapes moving through the forest—long-limbed, bone-covered beasts with ember eyes and metal mouths.
Hounds.
The villagers took up arms—bows of firewood, swords of stone and starlight. But the Hounds were swift and coordinated, ripping through defenses like paper.
"Stay close!" Kaelen shouted, dragging Po into a defensive line near the Well.
Po reached for his Flame—and it answered, roaring to life in his chest. But it was still wild, barely controlled. He tried to remember the forms Kaelen taught him, the movement of will and breath.
A Hound lunged.
Po sidestepped and blasted it with a burst of fire. The beast shrieked and rolled, its obsidian armor cracked.
Another came from the side—this one faster.
Po spun, shaping the fire into a blade this time, slashing through its midsection. It burst into smoke and cinders.
Kaelen fought like a storm—her sword glowing with runes, every strike precise. Thorne flanked her, launching fire disks that curved in the air like moons.
But the Hounds kept coming.
"We need to get him out of here!" Kaelen shouted.
"No," Po growled, slamming both hands to the ground. A wave of fire surged outward, forcing the Hounds back. "I'm done running."
"You're not ready!" Kaelen snapped.
"I wasn't ready when Jian Fei broke my body," Po said. "I wasn't ready when I was dragged to this world. But I'm here. I am the Flamebreaker—whether I like it or not."
The flames around him intensified, forming a ring that crackled with gold and violet.
Kaelen hesitated—then nodded. "Then show them."
Po stepped forward, his body a blur of movement now—every motion infused with fire, every strike purposeful. He wasn't just reacting—he was leading.
The Hounds faltered.
For a moment, Po felt invincible.
Then he saw it.
A figure stepped through the trees—tall, armored in dark crimson, with a mask shaped like a wolf's skull.
It raised its hand, and the flames near it died instantly.
The air went cold.
"Who—?" Po began.
Kaelen's face paled. "That's not a Hound. That's a Seeker."
The figure pointed at Po.
"Varik summons the Flamebreaker."
With a motion, a spear of black ice shot from the figure's palm.
Po barely dodged—then retaliated with a burst of fire, but the Seeker absorbed it with a flick of its gauntlet.
This was no mindless beast.
This was a hunter.
Po narrowed his eyes. "Then tell Varik—if he wants me, he can come himself."
He thrust both palms forward, shaping his fire not into a weapon—but into a symbol. A sigil of radiant gold, a phoenix coiled in fire.
The sigil struck the Seeker squarely in the chest. The mask cracked. The figure reeled.
But it didn't fall.
Instead, it turned—and vanished in a flicker of smoke.
Po stood breathing heavily, the world around him scorched and broken.
The Hounds fled.
The villagers began tending to the wounded, murmuring in awe.
Po turned to Kaelen, sweat on his brow.
"Was that enough proof?" he asked.
Kaelen nodded slowly. "You're more than just a flame now. You're a firestorm."
Thorne grinned. "And you just made an enemy of the most dangerous man in Elyndra."
Po sheathed the fire into his chest. "Then he'll know where to find me."