The village of Durnholde clung to the lower slopes of Mount Vireth like a stubborn lichen—small, gray, and forgotten. It was a place where stories came to die, where no one believed in gods or magic anymore. Except, perhaps, for Kaela's mother.
Kaela was born on the Night of the Ember Rain. The skies above Aerinthal had turned crimson, and burning stars fell like tears from the heavens. The villagers called it an omen—some whispered of doom, others of prophecy. But the moment Kaela first opened her eyes, her irises shimmered with flickers of amber flame, and the midwife dropped her in fright.
"She bears the Ember Mark," the woman hissed. "She's cursed!"
Only Seris, Kaela's mother, cradled the girl with joy. "No," she said. "She's chosen."
Years passed, and Kaela grew into a quiet, sharp-eyed girl who spent more time in the forest than among other children. She could coax flowers to bloom out of season, knew which mushrooms whispered danger, and often returned with strange, unburnt embers cradled in her palms—warm, but never hot.
At night, she dreamed of wings and flame. Of a voice calling her from deep beneath the mountain. "Come." Always the same word, always the same pull.
The villagers feared her. Even the children avoided her shadow. Only Old Marren, the blind bard, dared speak to her.
"You've got fire in your soul, girl," he'd murmur through toothless gums. "The old kind. Dragonfire."
Kaela never knew her father. Her mother told her he was a traveler, a wandering mage who vanished before she was born. Others claimed he had no name, only a sword made of gold and a voice that could command the wind.
Kaela stopped asking. She focused instead on the pull—the dreams—the whispers.
Then, on her sixteenth birthday, the moon cracked.
Literally. A jagged rift tore across its pale surface, visible even to the naked eye. The earth trembled. Smoke billowed from Mount Vireth's long-dead peak. Animals fled. And Kaela awoke screaming, her palms glowing with searing light, her sheets smoldering.
That night, she climbed the hill behind her cottage and stared at the mountain, now pulsing like a living thing. In the distance, crimson light rose into the sky, twisting into the shape of wings.
Something had awakened.
Something that called her by name.