> "Some stories begin in fire. Not a cleansing flame, but a burning away of all that was, leaving only questions."
> — The Lament of the Nameless, Elder Archives
>
The first thing Ash knew was fire. It roared in his ears, choked his throat, and burned his lungs with every desperate breath. The world around him was a blinding, angry orange. He lay on something rough and broken, the ground shifting under him like a crumbling ruin. A terrible mix of sounds assaulted him: the thunder of a huge bonfire, the sharp crack of wood breaking like bones, and far-off, scared screams. All of it quickly, terribly, swallowed by the hungry fire.
He pushed himself up, every muscle protesting with a deep, constant ache. His arms and legs felt heavy and strange, but he knew they were his. Around him, what had once been a village was now a nightmare of smoke and flames, a scene of total destruction. Burnt husks of homes and sharp, broken ruins stuck out like teeth from the ash-covered ground. Ash reached out a hand. Fine, gritty ash covered his fingers, mixing with sweat and dirt. The air tasted of burnt wood, burnt flesh, and a heavy, suffocating sadness.
A wave of deep confusion, worse than any physical pain, washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to remember anything familiar. But there was nothing. A huge, empty space stretched where his memories should have been. No face, no name, no past, no home. He was a blank slate, born from the ruins, a stranger even to himself. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at his mind. He was completely, utterly lost. He was alone.
He opened his eyes again, looking at the destruction with urgent worry. His gaze stopped at his own body. His simple, rough clothes were torn and singed, but otherwise ordinary. Yet, a strange, unnatural heat pulsed steadily, nonstop, under his shirt, right over his heart. With shaking fingers, Ash fumbled with the rough cloth, tearing it open.
He gasped, a choked sound that barely left his lips. Stuck in the flesh of his chest, just above his breastbone, was a jagged, black shard. It was about the size of his thumb, impossibly dark, soaking up all light. But at the same time, it glowed faintly from inside, pulsing strangely with his fast heartbeat. It felt alien, like a piece of frozen night, completely foreign, yet it was terrifyingly, undeniably, a part of him. The skin around it was red and sore, but the shard itself seemed to have melted into his flesh, a dark, living gem.
What is this? he thought, but the question felt distant, lost in his confusion. Then, the shard pulsed, and a fleeting, terrifying image flashed in his mind: not a memory, but a sudden, blinding vision of a vast, impossible crown, shattering into a million pieces, each screaming as it flew through a dark void. The vision was quick, but it left him with a chilling certainty: this shard was not just in him; it was of him, and it held terrible power.
A low groan, weak and rough, cut through the smoke-filled air, pulling Ash from his horrified thoughts. He spun around, his heart pounding against the alien shard. Half-buried under a fallen, still-smoldering beam, a person stirred. Fear fought with a strong urge to help, a small spark of human kindness in the face of total ruin. He chose to help, scrambling over broken pieces, ignoring his hurting muscles and burning lungs.
He reached the person, a woman. Her dark robes were torn and singed, showing what she had been through. Her face was covered in soot and ash. As Ash struggled to move the heavy beam that pinned her, her eyes, the color of twilight and surprisingly clear, snapped open. They looked old, careful, and filled with a deep tiredness that matched the raw confusion in his own.
"You're alive," she whispered, her voice dry and raspy from smoke. Her sharp gaze immediately fell to the glowing shard in Ash's chest. Her eyes widened, not in fear, but with a flash of clear knowing that sent a shiver down his spine. "The Crown..." she breathed, the single word like a prayer or a curse, full of unknown meaning.
Before Ash could demand to know more, a deep growl echoed through the ruins, closer this time, and clearly from a predator. A huge shadow, too big, too unnatural to be a person, moved fast through the thick smoke. Its shape was unclear but definitely scary.
The woman's eyes hardened, losing their weariness, replaced by a fierce, desperate will. With surprising strength, she pushed herself up from under the beam, wincing but moving quickly. "No time," she muttered, her voice urgent. "They're here for you. And that." She pointed at his chest.
She pointed a shaking hand beyond the ruined village, towards a distant, jagged, mist-covered mountain peak. "Veilstone Keep. Go. Now. Seek the old scholars, if any are left. They know about the Crown. They might know about you."
Ash hesitated. Fear made his limbs heavy. But another growl, even closer, pushed him into action. He needed answers. And this woman, who knew of the "Crown" and the "scholars," seemed to have them.
"Who are you?" he managed to croak.
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she gave him a sharp, forceful push. Her eyes, meeting his one last time, held a strong, piercing gaze. "Run, boy. Your past hunts you. My name is Selene. We will meet again. If you survive."
He ran. He didn't know where he was going, or why these monstrous shadows hunted him, or what terrible connection he had to this "Crown." But as he fled the burning village, the black shard in his chest pulsed, now cold, now hot, whispering promises he couldn't yet understand. He was Ash, or so Selene had called him. And the terrible truth that hunted him was just beginning.