The sea smelled of salt and old smoke.
The boy woke before dawn, as he always did.
Not because he wished to.
But because the gulls never stopped screaming.
He pushed aside the thin wool blanket and stepped outside the small stone hut he shared with his father.
The ruins stretched along the coastline like broken teeth.
Black towers half-melted by ancient heat.
Carvings no one could read anymore.
Streets fused together by dragonfire centuries dead.
Most people avoided the inner ruins.
They said the air felt wrong there.
The boy never felt that.
To him, it simply felt quiet.
He liked quiet.
His father was already by the boat, untangling the nets.
"You're late," the old man muttered without looking up.
"It's still dark," the boy answered.
"The fish don't care."
The boy stepped into the freezing water to help push the boat free. The cold bit hard, but he did not complain.
He rarely did.
They sailed beyond the black rocks where waves shattered white against ancient stone.
The colony was small.
A few dozen families.
Fishermen.
Salt traders.
People who did not ask about the past.
People who did not want to be found.
The boy pulled the nets carefully, avoiding tears.
His father watched him in silence.
"You think too much," the old man said suddenly.
"About what?"
"Everything."
The boy didn't answer.
He did think too much.
About why strangers sometimes stared at his pale hair.
About why he dreamed of burning towers.
About why fire felt… familiar.
He had never told his father about the dreams.
By mid-morning, the sky turned gray.
A storm was coming.
They turned back toward shore.
As they approached, something felt wrong.
No children on the beach.
No smoke from chimneys.
No noise.
The old man noticed too.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly.
They pulled the boat in quickly.
Heavy footprints covered the sand.
Not fishermen's boots.
Armed men.
Smoke rose from the center of the colony.
Fresh.
Dark.
They ran.
Huts were broken. Doors torn open. Two bodies lay near the well.
The boy recognized one.
Mira.
She had laughed loudly at everything.
She wasn't laughing now.
His stomach twisted.
From inside their hut came rough voices.
The old man shoved him back.
"No matter what happens," he said, low and firm, "you run."
"I'm not running."
"You will."
They stepped inside together.
Three men stood there in leather and steel.
Not common raiders.
Purposeful.
One held something wrapped in black cloth.
Round.
Heavy.
The cloth slipped slightly.
A smooth, dark surface glinted beneath it.
The old man went still.
"So it's true," one of the men said. "You kept it here."
The boy felt the air change.
The leader turned slowly toward him.
Silver hair caught the light.
Recognition flickered in his eyes.
"There you are."
Not surprise.
Expectation.
The old man stepped forward.
"You leave the boy out of this."
Steel flashed.
Everything moved too fast.
The boy shouted.
His father staggered.
Blood spread across his chest.
The wrapped object fell, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
The boy dropped to his knees, pressing his hands against the wound.
"No," he whispered. "No…"
The old man gripped his wrist.
"You are not my blood," he rasped. "But you are my son."
The boy's vision blurred.
"You were brought to me," the old man continued. "A man dying. Hair like yours. He said… if the Raven finds him… he dies."
The word meant nothing.
But the fear did.
"He left that," the old man said weakly, glancing toward the black stone object. "Said it would wake… when fire remembered your name."
"My name?" the boy whispered.
But the old man only smiled faintly.
"The sea is strongest… when it's quiet."
His grip loosened.
His breath stopped.
The boy knelt there, unmoving.
Behind him, the raiders shifted.
"Take him," their leader ordered.
Hands grabbed his shoulders.
He did not fight.
They dragged him into the burning street.
Ash fell like snow.
The black stone egg was placed at his feet.
They tied him to a wooden post.
The colony watched in silence.
"Burn him," the leader said.
The fire rose.
And the world went white.