Blood Of FirstBorn

The wind always howled through Dareth Hollow like it had something to say—but no one ever listened. Maybe because the wind carried secrets. Maybe because it carried bones.

Kael Eran sat on the edge of a moss-covered cliff, legs dangling, journal balanced on one knee. He stared out at the grey forest below, charcoal in hand, sketching the pattern he'd found carved beneath the temple ruins that morning. His hair—black as midnight and never combed—whipped in the wind.

Behind him, the broken pillars of the ancient site jutted from the earth like giant teeth. His lantern flickered on the stones, casting monstrous shadows on the walls that surrounded the long-forgotten altar.

He should've been afraid.

But fear didn't come easy to Kael. He'd seen too much, read too much, felt too much. Fear belonged to the farmers, the merchants, the priests. Not to boys who dreamed in dead tongues.

The runes burned in his mind—spiraling, intersecting, pulsing.

> "Yth tiln sha'dareth..." he whispered again.

"The soul returns broken."

He didn't know where he'd learned the phrase. It had come to him the night of his grandfather's funeral, like a whisper pressed into his skull. He remembered watching the old man's casket lower into the earth, and something inside him had... awakened.

That was three years ago. Now he was thirteen, and the voices had not stopped.

---

"Kael!"

The shout echoed through the woods, carried on the wind like an accusation.

He flinched, quickly snapping his journal shut and grabbing the lantern. His boots thudded softly on the stone as he dashed back through the broken archway, ducking under fallen beams and vines.

His sister's voice came again—closer this time.

"Kael Eran, I swear on every god in the Hollow, if I find you near those ruins again—"

"I'm coming!" he called out, breathless as he skidded down the hillside toward the worn trail.

Standing at the edge of the path, arms folded and face thunderous, was Lira Eran, age sixteen, temper legendary.

She was taller than him—barely—and wore a thick cloak of mountain hide, hair braided tightly down her back. Her eyes matched his: stormy grey, like clouds threatening to break.

"Do you ever listen?" she snapped. "You're supposed to be helping with the river traps. Instead, you're out here—again."

Kael gave a half-hearted grin. "I found a new pattern. Different from the last one. I think it might be a dialect—"

"I don't care if it sings and dances. That place is cursed."

"I don't believe in curses."

"Well, believe in this." She grabbed his arm and dragged him down the path. "Mother's furious. You missed both meals. Again."

---

Back at the village, dusk settled like a sigh.

Dareth Hollow wasn't much—just a scatter of homes, some with moss growing on their roofs, and a central fire pit that always smelled of fish and pine. They didn't have guards or walls. No one thought they needed them. After all, what threat would bother with a place forgotten by the rest of the world?

Kael's house stood at the edge of the village, closest to the forest line. Inside, the fire was already dying.

His mother sat by the hearth, skin pale from worry and hands shaking as she stirred a pot. She looked up when he entered, eyes hollow.

"You skipped again," she said quietly. "Again, Kael."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Lira shoved him forward. "He was at the ruins."

Their mother's expression didn't change, but her voice turned to frost. "We don't go there."

"But—"

"No."

Kael's fists clenched. "Why do you always act like knowledge is a disease? That place was built by people—maybe even our ancestors. Why should we forget it?"

His mother turned to stare into the fire. "Because that's what our ancestors wanted."

---

That night, Kael sat by the window, watching the stars through the fog. The wind whispered again—this time in words he could almost understand.

His journal lay open beside him. The disc he found earlier—it wasn't just stone. There were faint metal inlays, glimmering when the moonlight hit them. And... the runes were not just symbols. They were a message.

He traced them with a finger.

Suddenly, the air thickened.

His breath caught.

The room around him faded—swallowed by darkness.

Then... light.

A pale-blue flame ignited in the disc's center.

And a voice—low, broken, ancient—spoke from nowhere.

> "You are not the first to carry this blood, Kael Eran... but you may be the last."

Kael stumbled back. The journal slid off the table. The flame vanished.

Silence.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He stared at the disc, now cold and still.

But everything had changed.

---

The next day, he didn't speak to anyone. He didn't eat. He sat in the woods with the disc in his hand, trying to summon the voice again. Nothing.

That night, he dreamed of a burning sky.

A tower made of bones.

A man whose face was a mask of white fire.

And twelve thrones—empty.

When he awoke, the disc was glowing.

---

By the third day, Kael began to change.

Not physically—not yet.

But something shifted inside him. He heard things he shouldn't. Felt echoes in his veins. Sometimes, the wind spoke and he could understand it.

Words that weren't words.

Names that weren't names.

He started sketching again—maps of places he'd never seen. Symbols he had no memory of learning.

Lira noticed first.

"You're not sleeping," she said one morning, arms crossed. "And you mutter. In your sleep. In that... tongue."

Kael blinked. "What did I say?"

"Something about the Pale Flame. And the Veil."

The disc vibrated slightly in his pocket.

"I don't know what that means," he lied.

---

Two weeks later, soldiers arrived in Dareth Hollow.

Not local guards.

Royal soldiers.

They claimed to be investigating "arcane disturbances."

Kael's mother paled when she saw their insignia.

A black crown split by a white sword.

The Order of the Crownlight.

No one knew why they came to the Hollow.

No one but Kael.

That night, he ran.

---

He didn't take food. He didn't leave a note. He only carried the disc, his journal, and a knife Lira once gave him "in case of stupid decisions."

He left for the ruins.

The temple was darker than before.

Quieter.

He stepped toward the altar stone, and the disc pulsed like a heartbeat.

Then, like a flood, the vision hit him.

He wasn't in the temple anymore.

He stood beneath a black sky where stars bled silver. Giants made of fire and smoke marched across the horizon. A throne of light shattered. Twelve voices screamed as one. A blade carved through reality.

And a whisper echoed:

> "Find the Vault. Find the Flame. Or everything ends again."

Kael fell to his knees.

And when he looked up, the disc was embedded in his palm.

It had become part of him.

---

Back in the village, the soldiers burned his house.

His mother cried out—tried to stop them. They ignored her.

They spoke of heresy. Forbidden tongues. "The boy is a threat," they said.

Kael didn't return.

He watched from the forest, hidden behind an old ash tree, flames flickering in his eyes.

---

Thirteen years old. Hunted. Changed. Alone.

But not afraid.

Kael Eran had finally learned the first truth:

The Firstborn were not myths.

And neither was he.

---

> "If the world fears me... good."

"Let them run. I have questions that need answers—and bones to find."

---

[End of Chapter 1]