Kael ran until the sounds of the festival faded behind him, his breath ragged, his thoughts louder than his footsteps.
What was that?
What did I do?
What am I?
He ducked into the side alley behind Varek's forge, slumping against the wall. His hands trembled. He held them up to the moonlight — they looked the same. Calloused. Burned. Ordinary.
But they weren't.
He had stopped fire. With shadow.
The word itself felt like a curse. Shadow magic wasn't just forbidden — it was erased, wiped from scrolls and stories, reduced to legend and nightmare. The last Shadow King had nearly destroyed the Five Kingdoms. Anyone caught using it was executed without trial.
Kael tried to breathe. In. Out. The weight inside his chest was still there, but no longer a whisper — now it was humming.
Footsteps.
He pressed himself flat against the wall as someone passed the alley entrance. A tall figure, cloaked. Kael's stomach twisted — the same person from the crowd? They didn't stop, but they didn't rush either. Like a predator, confident it would find its prey again.
Kael waited until the street cleared. Then he slipped into the forge.
Master Varek was asleep upstairs, snoring like a hammer on stone. Kael didn't wake him. Instead, he pulled the old crate from under his cot, the one with the charred lid and iron clasps.
Inside were things Varek had told him never to touch — mementos from the past. A half-melted ring. A broken arrowhead. And a parchment, sealed in wax.
Kael had never dared open it.
But tonight, everything had changed.
Hands shaking, he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
At the top, in faded black ink, was a sigil he didn't recognize — a flame wrapped in a coil of smoke.
At the bottom, a name:
Kael Ashbourne.
And written across the center, as if scrawled in haste or warning:
> "Blood of the Shadow. Heir to the Fire."
A knock shattered the silence.
Kael froze.
Another knock — harder this time. And then, a voice: low, smooth, and cold.
> "Open the door, blacksmith. The Ash Blades have questions."