The village of Veyra was what some might politely call "quaint." Others might say "a place that time forgot and wisely avoided." Nestled deep in the ancient Valenwood Forest, it was the kind of settlement where the biggest excitement was Mrs. Tolen's chickens escaping again—or the occasional squirrel who clearly had bigger plans.
Kairon woke up to the familiar pounding of his father's hammer echoing through the thin wooden walls of their home. The rhythmic clang, clang was like the village's unofficial heartbeat, except it was more 'hit metal until it bends' than anything remotely heart-related.
He rubbed his eyes, resisting the urge to groan.
'Why does he always start so early? Is this an unspoken competition to see who can sound like a blacksmith first?'
Slipping into his worn boots, he glanced out the cracked window. The fog hung low, a thick blanket that made the whole village look like a moody painting.
'Seriously, who decided mornings needed fog anyway? Isn't sunrise enough drama?'
Outside, the village was waking up slowly. Farmers were herding sleepy livestock, merchants setting up groggy stalls, and somewhere, a child was already crying over a missing toy. Veyra was nothing if not consistent.
At the smithy, Kairon found his father hunched over a glowing blade, sweat rolling down his temple.
"Slow down, Kairon," his father grunted without looking up. "You're not trying to summon a storm, just make a sword."
'Yeah, right,' Kairon thought, gripping his hammer. 'If only wielding this thing was as easy as it looks.'
He mimicked his father's rhythm, hammer meeting anvil with sparks flying. The clangs felt oddly satisfying.
'Maybe I do have a knack for this, or maybe I'm just good at making noise.'
Then, just as he started to think today might actually be normal, the sky changed. And by changed, he meant ripped apart like a badly sewn curtain.
A streak of fire blazed across the morning mist, faster than any shooting star he'd ever seen—and with way more attitude. It left a trail of crimson and gold, lighting up the clouds like a celestial fireworks show. Villagers stopped and stared, mouths hanging open.
'Great,' Kairon thought, 'now everyone's going to think the world's ending. Again.'
The ground trembled beneath their feet. A distant roar—more like the earth itself was clearing its throat—followed by a plume of smoke rising above the forest beyond the village.
Without thinking, Kairon dropped his hammer and took off running toward the smoke.
'Because that's totally what you do when a giant fiery rock crashes nearby—run straight into the danger zone.'
The forest swallowed him in shadows and smells—wet leaves, smoke, and something metallic that made his nose wrinkle. He pushed past vines and broken branches, heart pounding in rhythm with the crackling fire ahead.
The crater was a jagged scar on the earth, trees snapped like twigs surrounding it. In the middle lay a small glowing seed, pulsing softly with a fire that seemed alive.
Kairon hesitated. 'This is either the coolest thing ever or the worst decision of my life.'
He reached out and took the seed in his palm. The moment his fingers touched it, an electric surge shot through him. His knees almost buckled, and his vision blurred with stars and shadows.
Then came the voice, deep and ancient, booming inside his head:
"You are chosen. The Cycle begins."
'Chosen? Of course,' Kairon thought bitterly. 'Because why wouldn't a simple blacksmith's apprentice get involved in a cosmic war?'
Images flooded his mind—gods with crowns of flame and ice, kingdoms collapsing, thrones shattered and reforged in blood and fire.
When the vision faded, Kairon was back in the forest, seed still warm in his hand. Around him, the villagers had gathered, their eyes wide with fear and awe.
"Is that... a curse?" one woman whispered.
"Or a blessing," another replied.
Kairon could barely breathe. The world he'd known was gone, replaced by something vast and terrifying.
At home that evening, his father looked at him with a mixture of pride and worry. "That seed... it's more than power. It's a burden. You'll be hunted, boy—not just by men, but by things older than this land."
Kairon nodded, feeling the weight of the words. 'Yeah, no pressure or anything.'
Nights brought strange dreams—visions of fallen gods and endless wars, other chosen ones bearing seeds of their own. Kairon realized he was not alone. The dying gods had scattered their power, and the cycle of ascension was turning once again.
The Age of Ascension had begun. And Kairon was right in the middle of it.
---
Kairon left Veyra before sunrise.
Not that he was fleeing exactly. More like… dramatically relocating himself in the name of self-preservation.
'Totally different,' he told himself. 'Heroes don't run. They strategically advance in the opposite direction.'
The villagers had started acting weird after the whole "glowing god-seed crater" incident. Not torches-and-pitchforks weird, but the kind of wide-eyed silence people reserve for either saints or dangerous lunatics. Possibly both. His father gave him a tight hug before he left, the kind that squeezed out all breath and subtly conveyed "don't die horribly."
"Trust your instincts, boy," he said, eyes glinting in the forge light. "And don't trust anyone else's."
'Solid advice. Also not ominous at all.'
The forest welcomed him with its usual charm: a parade of bugs, roots determined to trip him, and a squirrel that stared at him like it knew his search history. The deeper he went, the thicker the air grew, like the trees were holding their breath.
Kairon had no idea where he was going.
That wasn't entirely true. He had some idea—north, toward the Ember Spine Mountains, where the old stories spoke of shrines, ruins, and things that didn't appreciate being disturbed.
Also, where no one from Veyra would dare follow.
The seed in his chest—yes, chest now, it had burrowed there during the night like a very shiny parasite with ambitious goals—throbbed gently. It wasn't painful, but it was… aware. Pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Sometimes it hummed when he walked near certain stones or trees. Like a magical divining rod. Or a very annoying passenger.
He camped that night beneath a crooked pine, trying to sleep while the wind made every leaf sound like an assassin. He didn't dream.
He saw.
---
A thousand thrones in a void of stars. Each throne crumbled, scorched, bloodstained. Figures sat upon them—gods with too many eyes, too few hearts, some made of wind or shadow or sorrow. All dying. All screaming.
One stood apart.
A figure cloaked in rust-colored fire, with no face but endless voice.
"We fell to arrogance," it said, voice like thunder behind a door. "But the Cycle never ends. It merely reshapes."
It reached toward him, and the dream shattered.
---
Kairon woke up yelling. Which was embarrassing, especially when no one was around to hear.
'Ten out of ten nightmare. Would scream again.'
The next few days were the same blur of forest, strange dreams, and growing unease. The seed no longer just pulsed—it whispered. Sometimes a voice. Sometimes many. Most of them cryptic and unhelpful. A few made him genuinely question if he was going insane.
On the fifth day, things got interesting.
He was walking along a ridgeline when the ground caved beneath him. One moment, firm earth. The next? Sudden betrayal and gravity.
He landed hard, groaning in a bed of moss and old bones. Dust rose in clouds, and as it cleared, he realized he was in a sunken ruin—stone walls overgrown with vines, fractured columns and cracked sigils glowing faintly.
In the center of the ruin stood a pedestal.
Because of course there was.
Upon it: a sphere, dull black, but swirling faintly with red mist.
'Definitely cursed. Possibly double-cursed.'
Before he could leave like any sane person would, the seed in his chest flared hot, like it recognized something. Or someone.
As he stepped closer, the ground pulsed. A low hum filled the air.
Then—a voice.
"You're late."
Kairon jumped back, fists raised. "Who's there?!"
A figure stepped from the shadows behind a pillar. Young. Maybe seventeen. Dressed in traveling leathers, eyes glowing faintly with blue flame. A smirk played on their lips.
"I figured the gods would send someone a little taller. But hey, no complaints."
Kairon stared. "Wait. You have a seed too?"
The figure nodded and tapped their chest. "Inherited mine three months ago. The God of Ash and Veil."
They pointed at Kairon. "You're burning with Radiance. That means yours was... Emberlight, yeah?"
Kairon blinked. "You're... not trying to kill me?"
"Yet. Depends on your vibe."
'Oh fantastic. A sarcastic chosen one with mysterious powers. Just what I needed.'
"My name's Vela," the teen said, extending a hand. "We're called Scions now. Heirs to the gods. You're in the Cycle."
Kairon took the hand slowly. "I'm Kairon. I didn't sign up for any of this."
"None of us did," Vela said. "But the gods didn't exactly leave us a choice."
They led him deeper into the ruin, where murals told stories of divine wars—gods rising, falling, reshaping. A cycle of power that repeated across ages. Kairon saw one mural that made his blood chill.
A massive throne of stars, empty, surrounded by fallen crowns.
"That," Vela said quietly, "is the Infinite Throne. The seat of absolute dominion. The Cycle always ends there."
"And begins again," Kairon muttered.
They trained together in the ruins for the next few days. Vela showed him how to call upon the seed—how to shape flame from thought, enhance speed, harden skin like molten steel. It came slowly, awkwardly. Like wrestling with an angry ghost that lived in your ribcage.
Kairon's fire wasn't just heat—it understood. It bent to purpose. When he focused, it shimmered in geometric patterns, wrapping his limbs in radiant gold.
"You're not bad," Vela admitted one evening. "A little dramatic. But not bad."
"Thanks," Kairon said. "You're almost tolerable too."
They sat beside a cold fire, watching the stars.
"You think more of us are out there?" Kairon asked.
"No. I know they are," Vela said. "The seeds were scattered wide. And not all of them want balance."
That night, the ruins trembled.
A howl echoed from the darkness—deep, guttural, not quite beast, not quite man.
Kairon bolted upright. "What was that?"
Vela stood, drawing a curved blade from thin air. "Trouble. Something's hunting the seeds."
Figures emerged from the forest—three of them, cloaked in bone-white armor, masks etched with hollow runes. No footsteps. No breath. Only silence.
Then the leader spoke.
"Scions of dead gods. You are summoned. Kneel—or be unmade."
Kairon stepped forward, fire flickering to life across his arms.
"Yeah," he said. "Hard pass."
The leader tilted its head. "Then burn."