The ash never left Narah.
Each morning, when the sky turned copper-grey and the winds moaned like spirits, a layer of soot coated the city's broken stones. The once-glorious capital of the Flameborn Empire was now nothing more than a haunted shell, reduced to ruins after the War of Unbinding. Magic was dead. The gods had turned silent. And those who remained lived like rats—scurrying beneath what remained of crumbled temples and shattered towers.
Aaryan lived beneath one such ruin.
The remnants of the Temple of the Dawn stood like broken teeth on a cliff overlooking the Burnt Quarter. Among the shattered stone pillars and melted glass lay a hollow where he had made his shelter—a fire pit, a few stolen blankets, and a cracked kettle with rust at the lip.
He sat huddled by the fire, flint in hand, teeth chattering from the cold. Tchak. Tchak. Sparks flew. But the kindling—wet from last night's fog—refused to catch.
A voice called out from behind him. "You'll freeze to death before that lights."
Aaryan didn't look. "Maybe that's for the best."
Rivka walked up, shaking her head, the wind tugging at her frayed hood. She was about his age, with wild curly hair and sharp, sarcastic eyes. She crouched beside him and handed over a small flask.
"Spirit oil," she said. "Last drop. Don't waste it."
He splashed it over the wood, struck the flint once more—and flames sprang to life. Warmth bloomed against his numb fingers.
For a few seconds, the world didn't feel so cruel.
"I thought you were out scavenging," Rivka said, hugging her knees.
"I went. Nothing today. Not even copper wires."
She sighed. "You know what that means."
He nodded. In Narah, rations were only given to those who brought back salvage—metal, wood, old books, anything that could be burned or sold. Fail for too many days, and your name vanished from the lists. Permanently.
"You need something big," Rivka said softly. "Something ancient."
"I know," Aaryan muttered. "I'm going into the vaults."
Rivka's eyes widened. "The old vaults? Beneath the Burnt Quarter?"
"They say everything was sealed after the Unbinding War. But if anything's left… it'll be there."
"That place is cursed."
"So is starving."
---
He waited for nightfall. When the patrols thinned and the sky turned blood-orange behind the shattered moon, Aaryan slipped into the Burnt Quarter.
Once a center of magical research, the Burnt Quarter was a maze of blackened towers and melted archways. Statues of gods with hollow eyes lined the streets, their faces scorched by forbidden flame. The very air reeked of death and smoke—centuries old, yet still fresh.
His path led him to a collapsed atrium—once the Flameborn Library. Beneath the rubble, a staircase spiraled into darkness. Aaryan lit a small oil lamp and descended.
Each step creaked under his weight. Dust danced in the lamp's glow like fireflies. The silence here was not ordinary—it felt heavy, like something was listening.
At the bottom, he found a vault door, cracked open just enough to slip through. Inside, the room was full of broken shelves and rusted chests. Most had been looted long ago. But in a far corner, wrapped in silver chains and nestled in a broken altar, he found it:
A pendant.
It was blackened by time, shaped like a flame, with a dull red crystal at its center. Cold to the touch, yet pulsing—like a heartbeat. As soon as his fingers touched it, the world shifted.
He saw flashes.
A circle of cloaked figures chanting in a language he couldn't understand. A pyre that roared into the sky. A crown of fire falling into his hands.
And then—his name. Echoing in a voice not his own.
> "Aaryan…"
He gasped and fell backward, chest heaving. The pendant fell into his lap, glowing faintly now. Something ancient had awakened.
He didn't know why… but it had chosen him.
---
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He sat by the fire again, pendant in his hand, watching it pulse. Rivka sat beside him, staring at it with wonder.
"It's… flameglass," she said. "They used to craft these only for high priests and guardians. See the silver chain? It's engraved with the Guardian's Creed. 'Ashes to Flame, Flame to Ash.' That's old magic."
"Do you think it's dangerous?"
"Everything old is dangerous. But also powerful."
He wrapped it around his neck, feeling its warmth seep into his skin.
"I don't know what it means yet," he whispered. "But I'm going to find out."
---
The dreams began that night.
He stood in a circle of fire, surrounded by figures cloaked in emberlight. They chanted his name, louder and louder, until the flames rose into a wall around him.
Then came the figure.
Clad in golden armor, face hidden behind a mask of obsidian. His voice echoed like thunder in the hollow of the earth.
> "You are the last Flameborn, Aaryan. The world forgot you. But the fire remembers."
The ground cracked. Fire shot from Aaryan's hands—but he couldn't control it. It twisted and turned, burning everything.
He woke up screaming.
---
The next morning, Rivka found him sitting by the edge of the cliff, staring at the pendant. His eyes were different. Brighter. Sharper.
"I need to leave Narah," he said without looking at her. "I need to know who I am. What this thing is. Why it called me."
She frowned. "And what? You'll just walk out and hope answers fall from the sky?"
"No," he said, finally turning to her. "I'm going to find them. Even if I have to burn the truth out of the gods themselves."
A gust of wind swept through, scattering ashes into the air.
And in the distance, from beneath his cloak, the pendant flared to life—no longer faint. No longer forgotten.
But burning.