Chapter 1 – The Outcast of Emberfall
By Victor Simdrix
The village of Emberfall always glowed with warmth when the dawn came, its thatched roofs catching the morning light like embers in a dying hearth. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, children chased each other across narrow dirt paths, and the bells of the market chimed with a comforting rhythm. To outsiders, Emberfall was a peaceful place, cradled by forests of whispering ashwood and rivers that shimmered like molten glass. But beneath the laughter and the song of hammers against anvils, the village carried a shadow—a fear spoken only in hushed tones.
That shadow had a name.
Nyra Veylock.
From the day she was born, fire seemed to cling to her like a second skin. When other children played with wooden toys, Nyra's hands sparked and singed them black. When she cried as a baby, the hearth flames in her mother's hut would leap as though mirroring her grief. By the time she was twelve, whispers followed her everywhere: "The cursed girl." "The child of the Ash Wraith." Even though she had never harmed anyone intentionally, accidents always seemed to happen—smoke curling from her hair when she grew angry, small fires sparking in her footsteps when she ran.
The elders called it the Ember Curse.
At sixteen, Nyra had stopped expecting kindness. She wore her solitude like a cloak, slipping through the village only when necessary, eyes lowered, hoping no one would throw a stone or spit in her direction. Her only comfort was the forest beyond the fields, where she could sit among the ash trees and breathe freely. Here, her fire seemed calmer, as though the old trees remembered secrets even the villagers had forgotten.
But Emberfall was not a place that forgave difference. That morning, as the bells tolled for the Festival of Sparks—a celebration of the fire-magic that gave their people life—Nyra felt the stares more sharply than ever. Families dressed in red and gold gathered in the square, tossing bright powders into the air. Flames roared in the ceremonial braziers, and dancers spun with ribbons trailing behind them. It was meant to be a day of joy, of honoring the Ember that blessed their land.
Yet when Nyra stepped into the square, laughter stuttered and fell silent.
A child whispered, "She'll bring ruin."
A woman muttered, "Why does she dare to come?"
And then, loudest of all, a man spat on the ground at her feet. "Witch."
Nyra clenched her fists. The Ember inside her stirred, angry, eager to leap free. She forced it down, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood. She wouldn't give them what they wanted. She wouldn't let her fire consume her.
Still, fate had its own cruel timing.
As the High Elder raised the sacred torch to light the great festival pyre, a sudden burst of flame roared from Nyra's direction. The crowd screamed, scattering as sparks danced wildly across the square. The braziers toppled, fire leaping to nearby banners.
"She's cursed!" someone cried.
"She'll burn us all!" another shouted.
And in the chaos, Nyra saw the High Elder's eyes fix on her—not with fear, but with something colder. Calculation.
The fire died down quickly, leaving only smoke curling into the dawn sky. Yet the damage was done. The people would not forget.
And deep within her chest, Nyra felt it: the Ember thrumming, restless, whispering like a living thing. A power she never asked for. A fire she could not yet control.
On that day, as the smoke drifted across Emberfall, Nyra understood one truth with a clarity that made her heart ache—
She was no longer just an outcast.
She was a threat.
And threats did not survive long in Emberfall.