Soren had been running through the fields all afternoon, chasing shadows, until exhaustion pulled him down. He drifted into sleep under the waning sun, unaware that his world was about to burn.
When he awoke, the sky was crimson, streaked with curling smoke. Silence hung over the village. Then came the roar — flames devouring homes, rooftops collapsing, sparks rising into the choking air. Panic clawed at Soren's chest. He called for his family, but no voices answered.
He ran, heart hammering, lungs burning, until he saw it: a black-robed figure, standing unmoving amidst the inferno, watching. Dread twisted through him. Was this figure the cause of the fire, or merely its witness?
The flames surged, searing his skin. Soren's scream caught in his throat. Darkness claimed him.
When he awoke, the village was gone, reduced to embers and silence. In his left eye burned a ghostly flame, tethered to the souls of the villagers. Shadows of their laughter, pain, and sorrow twisted in its glow. The black-robed figure was gone, leaving only questions — and a fire within him that would never die.
Thus began Soren's journey: bound to a spectral flame, carrying the memories of a village lost, guided by a light that whispered of vengeance, sorrow, and fragile hope.