Chapter 4: The Hollow Flame
Storms gathered over the northern hills as Kael left the Firepath behind. The air had grown thinner, the cold biting deeper into his bones. The land was harsher here—jagged rocks, twisted roots, and winds that howled like mourning spirits.
He trudged forward, guided only by the shard's glow and the ancient maps Maeryn had burned into his memory. The Shattered Peaks loomed ahead like broken teeth, and nestled between them, the Vault of Flame awaited.
On the third night, he found shelter in the ruins of an old waystation. There, the wind quieted—but Kael's dreams did not.
He saw a throne made of blackened bone, and seated upon it, a figure wrapped in shadows, a hollow flame flickering in its chest.
"Do you think yourself chosen?" the figure asked, its voice echoing like a dying star.
Kael tried to speak, but the fire in his throat turned to ash.
"All flames die, boy. Even you."
He awoke gasping, the shard searing against his skin.
Outside, something moved.
Kael drew the small dagger Maeryn had given him. A low growl answered. From the darkness, a pair of eyes gleamed—too wide, too hungry.
Then a creature leapt from the shadows. It was no wolf, no beast of nature. Its body was smoke and sinew, its claws dripping flame. A wight-born, summoned by the Hollow One.
Kael barely dodged its first strike. He rolled, sliced, missed. The pendant flashed, casting a burst of light that stunned the creature. In that instant, Kael thrust the shard forward—and it responded.
Flame erupted from his hand.
Not wild. Not destructive.
Controlled.
The fire struck the wight, unraveling its form in a scream of smoke and sparks.
Kael stood trembling, the shard dimming in his grasp.
The fire obeyed him now.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a boy running from fire.
He felt like a flame.
And far to the north, the Hollow One stirred.
"He is waking.
Kael did not sleep again that night. He sat in the waystation's ruins, the dagger in his lap and the shard glowing faintly at his chest. Outside, snow began to fall. Soft, steady, like ash.
By morning, he had resolved to move faster. The Vault of Flame was close—he could feel it, like a pull in his blood. He crossed the snow-laced valley beyond the ruins and entered the lower crags of the Shattered Peaks.
The landscape grew stranger the deeper he went. Rock formations twisted like frozen fire. Trees petrified by heat and time stood black and brittle. In one glade, he passed a ring of scorched bones and the remnants of ancient battle banners, untouched by wind or rot. The air crackled faintly, as if echoing some long-past war.
As he climbed, the sky darkened with unnatural clouds. Lightning rippled silently overhead. The shard began to vibrate—a warning, or a summons.
He crested a ridge—and saw it.
The Vault of Flame.
A massive stone gate, half-buried in the mountainside, its doors carved with spirals of fire and guarded by two statues of wingless dragons. Between them, a brazier burned with blue flame—cold and flickering, yet untouched by snow or time.
Kael stepped closer. The pendant warmed. The shard blazed.
He placed his hand against the gate.
The carvings shimmered. The statues stirred. The brazier flared.
Then the voice came again.
"Only the Kindled may enter. Only flame may pass."
Kael braced himself, closed his eyes, and let the shard guide him.
Fire wrapped around him—not to consume, but to transform. It wove through his limbs, into his breath, his blood. When he opened his eyes again, the world was cast in golden light.
The gates opened.
Inside was darkness.
But Kael walked forward, flame in his heart.
And behind him, far across the windswept valley, the Ashen Riders arrived.
Kael stepped beyond the threshold of the Vault of Flame and into a cathedral of shadows.
The air inside was dry and heavy, tinged with the scent of old smoke. Flame sigils spiraled up the walls, pulsing faintly like the last embers of a long-dead fire. The ceiling arched far above him, lost in a haze of heat and flickering light.
He walked forward slowly, the shard at his chest flaring in steady rhythm, guiding his steps deeper into the Vault. Beneath his boots, the floor shimmered with molten veins—silent rivers of dormant power.
At the chamber's center stood a pedestal of obsidian carved into the shape of a flame-crowned tree. Upon it lay a scroll bound in golden twine, and beside it, a circlet of blackened silver, etched with ancient runes.
Kael hesitated.
The voice came again, echoing through the chamber without sound:
"You who carry the ember, know this: fire remembers. It remembers the First Flame, and the Fall. It remembers the Kindled and their sacrifice."
The scroll unfurled on its own, revealing words written in shifting flame. As Kael read, images flashed in his mind:
A city of light crowned by a burning tree. A war between the Kindled and a vast, shadowed army. A betrayal that shattered the Ember and scattered its pieces across Avelor. The Hollow One rising from ash and ruin.
Kael staggered back.
"Why me?" he whispered.
But no answer came.
The circlet pulsed. He reached for it, and the moment his fingers touched the metal, searing heat raced through him. He cried out, but did not let go.
Visions overwhelmed him—a line of warriors crowned in flame, each one bearing the mark he bore. The last Kindled falling atop a burning peak, casting their ember into the wind. And then darkness.
But something new emerged: a spark. A rebirth.
Kael fell to his knees, the circlet now cool in his hand. When he stood again, he was changed.
The Vault's inner sanctum opened before him, revealing a hall of mirrors made from polished obsidian. Each reflected a different Kael—some older, some scarred, some robed in flame.
And in the farthest mirror stood a figure cloaked in shadow, its face a mask of soot and bone.
The Hollow One.
It raised its hand—and Kael felt a chill lance through him.
The shard flared in defiance.
And the mirrors shattered.
Kael stood in silence as shards rained down around him. One embedded itself in the stone at his feet, glowing faintly.
"Choose."
That was all the shard said.
Kael picked up the mirror shard and held it beside the one from the griffin's wing. They pulsed together—fragments of something greater. A weapon. A key. A crown.
His journey was not just about survival. It was about restoration.
And as the Vault of Flame sealed behind him, Kael stepped back into the world.
High above, the sky cracked with distant thunder.
The Hollow One was stirring.
And Avelor would burn if he failed.
Chapter 5: Ashes in the Wind
Kael emerged from the Vault of Flame with dawn cresting the peaks of the Daggerhorn Mountains. The air outside was sharp and cold, yet it carried a strange warmth, as though the Vault had kindled something deep inside him that would never truly fade.
He had not taken ten steps before a rustle from the trees drew his attention. A cloaked figure stepped into view—tall, wrapped in silver-threaded robes, with a staff carved from charwood.
"Kael of Emberwatch," the figure said, voice soft and knowing. "You've awakened the Vault. The world turns once more."
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
The figure pulled back their hood to reveal a woman with flame-orange eyes and hair that shimmered like moonlit coals.
"I am Lysari," she said. "Seer of the Ash Circle. And I've waited a long time for you."
Lysari beckoned him to follow. Together, they walked a narrow mountain path winding downward toward the valley. As they went, she spoke of the Ash Circle—an order of mystics and scholars who had preserved what little truth remained of the Kindled.
"They said the flame was gone," Lysari said. "But fire doesn't vanish. It sleeps. Smolders. Waits for one who can carry it again."
Kael fingered the shard at his chest. "It's not just a burden. It's… alive."
She nodded. "And it's only the beginning."
By evening, they reached a cliffside sanctuary. Fires flickered in braziers carved with old runes, and from the high perch, Kael could see the vast lands of Avelor below—forests, rivers, and distant cities cloaked in mist.
But shadows crept at the edges of the horizon.
"The Hollow One's influence is spreading," Lysari said gravely. "Night beasts move where light once held dominion. Towns vanish without word. Whispers say the Black Flame cult rises again."
Kael felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. "And I'm supposed to stop all that?"
"No," Lysari replied. "Not alone. There are others who still carry fragments. The Flame is scattered, but not lost."
She led him to a chamber where ancient maps were pinned across stone walls, marking lost Kindled temples, sites of fallen battles, and mysterious sigils that pulsed with emberlight.
"You must find the others," Lysari said. "Before the Hollow One does."
Kael stared at the map. So many places. So much unknown.
But deep inside, the shard throbbed with steady heat.
"I'll find them," he said. "Whatever it takes."
Outside, the wind howled like a warning. Far to the north, beyond the reach of firelight, a storm of ash was rising.
And the flame within him burned brighter.
Chapter 5: Ashes in the Wind (continued)
Kael spent the night in the sanctuary under Lysari's watch. Strange dreams clung to his sleep—whispers of burning cities, silver-cloaked riders, and the Hollow One seated on a throne of cinders. But when he awoke, the dreams scattered like smoke.
Lysari waited by a fire with two traveling packs. "It's time," she said simply.
They set off at first light. Their first destination: the Ember Grove, an ancient woodland said to hide another fragment of the Flame. As they journeyed through forested hills and crystal streams, Lysari taught Kael the old flame-songs—chants once used by the Kindled to focus power, summon light, and push back shadow.
Kael struggled at first. The songs made his shard tremble but not ignite. Only when he let go of fear—when he sang with longing, with pain, with fire—did the ember stir.
By the third evening, they reached the Grove.
It was no ordinary forest. Trees twisted toward the heavens like frozen fire, their bark a dark bronze, their leaves faintly glowing in ember hues. The very air shimmered.
"This place is sacred," Lysari said. "One of the last untouched by the Hollow One."
Kael stepped into the Grove, feeling the shard burn hot against his chest. A presence stirred.
From the trees came a creature unlike any he'd seen—tall, antlered, robed in moss and flame. Its eyes were molten gold.
"I am Ashvyn, Flamewarden of the Grove," it said. "You seek what was lost."
Kael nodded, heart pounding.
Ashvyn studied him in silence, then motioned toward a pool of silver fire at the Grove's heart.
"Prove you are Kindled reborn," it said. "Step into the memory."
Without hesitation, Kael walked into the flame.
Pain seared his mind. He saw a battle from centuries ago—the Fall of Viremont, when the last Kindled stood against the Hollow One. He lived their desperation, their sacrifice, their final flare of defiance. And then he saw himself—not as he was, but as he could become. Cloaked in flame. Leading others.
When he stumbled out, the pool's light followed him, settling into the shard. Another piece awakened.
Ashvyn bowed. "The Flame remembers you."
Kael turned to Lysari, who smiled through tears.
"The Ember Grove is only the beginning," she said.
Kael looked beyond the trees, to the rising storm on the horizon.
"I'm ready."