The first ray of sunlight had barely touched the horizon when Arien Varoth arrived at Mahran. From a distance, the village seemed shrouded in dark mist — but it was no ordinary fog; it was a thin, almost translucent smoke, lingering in the air even with no visible flames. As he crossed the stone gate, he looked up and what he saw made his breath falter: the houses, once painted in ochre and cedar, had been reduced to rubble, covered by a mantle of cold ashes that did not burn.
A memory struck him, like a shard of glass piercing the silence: the sharp laughter of his sister Líara as she picked flowers in the backyard. In a sudden flash, he thrust his hand among the debris and grabbed a broken toy — a small bronze carriage Líara had carried since childhood. His fingers touched the cold metal, deformed by the invisible force that had destroyed everything. All around, he could hear a low humming, a deep echo that resonated with each beat of his heart.
As he walked through the ruins, flashes of memory assaulted him without warning:
— "Arien, hold on tight!"
His father's firm, protective voice, when the boy hung too far on the branch of the ancient fig tree.
— "Promise you'll come back quickly?"
His mother's sweet question, her eyes moist, when he left for the market at dawn.
— "No matter what happens, remember our oath."
His sister's smile, wrapping him in a hug so tight it nearly suffocated him.
The present, however, was empty. Each memory pulsed like an open wound, echoing the same question: why? On the ground, he found deep footprints, traces of heavy boots that retreated toward the edge of the village. But there were no signs of battle: no bodies, no shattered weapons. It seemed as if everything and everyone had been consumed by a paradoxical fire — a fire without flames, without heat, without sound.
Among the rubble of the village well, Arien spotted something astonishing: a black stone, smooth as marble, yet alive — pulsing with a faint rhythm reminiscent of a beating heart. He remembered the sermon of old Khron, the hermit who lived on the hill:
"The Static Flame does not burn, Arien. It consumes what is alive, leaving nothing behind. Whoever controls that fire holds the power to steal souls."
Arien lifted the stone and felt a chill run down his spine. It was proof of the power that had annihilated Mahran. He closed his fist, squeezing the dark fragment, as if holding in his hand the key to his vengeance.
Suddenly, an almost inaudible sound reached his ears: the tinkling of a silver bell, identical to the one his sister used to wear on her dress. Arien stopped, his pulse pounding. He felt a shock of hope — and then the pain of knowing he would never again hear that sound in an embrace.
He crouched before what remained of the old Varoth tavern. On the floor, dried bloodstains mingled with the soot. He drew closer and inhaled the air, thick with iron and dust. The scent of old gunpowder? No: it seemed like the residue of an unnatural magic, one that defied the rules of the elements. It was the signature of Kael'Zyth, prophesied as the torch of the desert that would devour everything with fire without flame.
He opened his eyes, his gaze now as steady as tempered steel. He remembered the promise he had made to his dying sister, just moments before:
"I will find whoever did this. I'll make them pay for every drop of blood and every silenced smile."
Arien stood up. Half the village was already behind him, but he did not look back. He slung the battered spear across his back and fastened his quiver. At his belt, he stored the fragment of black stone in a leather pouch — the symbol of his curse and his mission.
Before leaving, he lifted his face to the sun, now higher in the sky, and murmured aloud:
"I do not seek only vengeance. I seek to know the fire that never burns… and to discover my own inner fire."
Without waiting for an answer, he walked north, where the desert of Kael'Zyth awaited him. The trail of black sand stretched out like a somber carpet, unfurling ancient secrets of sand and magic. In the heart of that sea of shadows, he would find the hermit Khron, the bearer of the Static Flame's secret — and perhaps, the first clue to the truth of his own origin.
As his steps echoed in the silence of the ruins, the fragment in his pouch pulsed stronger, as if it were a second heart, marking the beginning of a journey whose flames would not fade until the last page.