Flameborn: Heir of the Ember Throne

So. Three days out from that wild scramble through the storm-ripped valley, Kael found himself teetering at the edge of a busted-up cliff, staring down at a city that looked like it had lost a fight with time—and lost hard.

Emberfall, huh.

The name drifted through his brain all weird and smokey, like something burnt but not quite gone. Used to be those spires down there blazed with light. Now they just looked sad, split and hunched under centuries of bad luck and worse weather. Ivy had gone full chokehold on the towers, crawling over the ruins like it owned the place. Streets? Just a mess of shattered tiles and fluffy white ash, the kind that skitters around when the wind gets feisty.

But, you know, the place wasn't totally dead. Not really.

Something ancient was still lurking in the cracks. Breathing. Waiting.

He didn't see a thing—more like he felt it, the second they'd crossed that last ridge. Some spark inside him started twitching, like a match catching a whiff of wind. Every step toward those mangled gates, it burned a bit hotter. Like… home, but not? Familiar and alien all at once.

"This was the capital?" Kael muttered, eyeing a wall that looked like it'd survived a dragon's tantrum—iron all twisted and stone shattered to hell.

Lyra limped up behind him, leaning on her staff like she owed it money. She still looked rough from the Shadowbrand mess a few days back. Not bleeding out, but definitely not winning any footraces. Her eyes, though—sharp enough to cut glass.

"It was more than that," she said, scanning the skyline like maybe she'd spot the past hidden under all that ruin. "Everything started here. Flamecall, the legends, the whole mess. Before the war, before the Empire torched everything that didn't fit their bedtime stories."

She ducked under a fallen arch, boots crunching on broken stone and roots that shouldn't be there but are anyway. Trees, all pale and ghostly, had muscled in where buildings used to stand, leaves glinting in that weird, washed-out light. Kael tagged along, picking his way down some old avenue now buckled and cracked—nature flipping the bird at whatever rules cities used to follow.

He stopped by a statue, or, well, what was left of it. Mostly just a hunk of stone with a sword sticking out. The face was gone—time and weather had rubbed it blank—but the hand still gripped this gnarly old embersteel blade, rusted to hell but still looking kinda dangerous.

"Flameforged," Kael whispered, fingertips brushing the blade. It buzzed under his skin, like a memory trying to get his attention. "Saw a drawing like this in your journal."

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Peeking when I was out cold?"

"You left it open," he shot back, not looking at her.

She snorted. "Still rude, genius."

Kael crouched, pressing his palm to the sword. Even with all the dirt and years, that thing still thrummed with something. Not fire, exactly. Close, though—like heat tangled with ghosts.

"There's something under the city," he said, mostly to himself. "I can feel it. Like a… place. Waiting."

Lyra stared at him, quiet for a bit, then nodded. "There's a vault under the Hall of Ash. Some called it a library. Some said it was a forge. Nobody's cracked it since Emberfall went kaboom."

"Any clue how?"

She shrugged. "Not yet. But I think you do."

So they pushed on, weaving through busted temples and courtyards where the shadows clung thicker than they should. Some columns still stood, blackened and chipped, archways leading into nothing but piles of junk or straight up holes. The air got heavy—like, hard-to-breathe heavy. Smelled like old fire, rust, and… something sweet? Charcoal and nostalgia, maybe.

Finally, they hit the center of the city—a big ol' circle of stone, with this massive black disc smack in the middle. No cracks, no dust. Just smooth and cold, ringed with runes that were mostly faded but a few still hanging on.

Lyra pointed. "The Hall's down there. If it's anywhere."

Kael stepped onto the disc. Right away—bam—something zapped through him. Not pain, more like… recognition. Like a forgotten song you suddenly remember the words to.

Runes sparked to life. Dim at first, then bright, almost eager.

"What now?" he called, standing dead center.

Lyra's face softened, just a bit. "Just… listen."

Kael knelt, hand flat on the stone.

Silence.

Then this whisper—not a real sound, more like pressure and warmth pressed into his bones. A language older than words but somehow, he just… got it.

He answered, not with words. With fire.

A spark flickered back. The runes thrummed—like, actually in perfect sync. Stone under Kael's hand went from cool to "ow, that's hot" in a heartbeat. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed out, light leaking through like sunrise forcing its way past blackout curtains.

With a groan that sounded way too alive for a rock, the disk split and just… melted into the ground, leaving a spiral stairwell lit up in lazy gold.

Kael just stood there, chest heaving.

"Didn't know I could pull that off," he muttered, kind of stunned.

Lyra just gawked at the stairs, eyes dinner-plate wide. "Yeah, well, neither did I."

So—down they went. Into the dark.

---

But what was underneath? Not a library, not really.

It was a damn tomb.

The place was huge and round, with these hulking pillars covered in names—seriously, thousands, easy. No books. No scrolls. Just this dead silence, busted chains, and that coppery tang clinging to the air, all dried blood and old violence.

Dead center: a forge. Cold as a grave, but weirdly untouched. Tools left mid-job, like the smiths just evaporated. Piles of embermetal ingots stacked nearby, glowing faint, like someone tried to bottle starlight.

Kael drifted over to the anvil, right at the heart of things. One rune, deep and sharp: the Flameheart.

"They died here," Lyra said, whispering, like she was afraid the dead might overhear. "Last of the Flameborn. When Emberfall fell, they locked themselves in. Better than getting caught. Or twisted."

"All to protect what they were," Kael said, palm pressed to the anvil, "and what they made."

Soon as his fingers brushed the rune, heat slammed into him—not fire, but memory. Suddenly his head was full of flashbulb visions: a woman with wildfire hair lifting a sword of living flame; some guy forging a crown out of molten gold with hands burned to ash; kids chanting old words, veins lit like wires.

Gone in a blink.

Kael staggered. Lyra grabbed him.

"You saw something?"

"Yeah. Fragments. Sparks, not a full blaze."

One of the names on a pillar started glowing. Kael just… gravitated to it. "Elandor Vael," he read. Didn't ring a bell, but his hand reached out anyway.

He touched it. The wall behind the name rumbled and slid open, revealing a hidden nook.

Inside? A long case, blackened leather, scorched.

Kael popped it open.

Inside: a weapon that didn't fit any mold. Not a sword, not a spear—more like a staff, dark emberwood streaked with gold, tip capped with emberglass pulsing like a heartbeat. Light shifted across it, slow, alive.

Lyra edged in, voice barely there. "That's a Flamebound relic. A conduit. Meant for someone."

Kael picked it up. Heat flared in him, but this time it wasn't wild. It was clean. Steady. Like the thing had been waiting for him.

A spark jumped on the anvil, snapped out. But it was enough.

Not alone anymore.

---

Outside, the wind was just unhinged.

Kael and Lyra hit the plaza as the clouds rolled in, way too fast, all drama. Thunder boomed, but the sound was off—sharp, surgical. The air stank of ozone and old magic, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Kael squinted up.

A massive shadow hovered above the ruins, blocking out half the sky. Sleek, black, silent—creepy as hell.

Lyra's voice came out thin. "Obsidian Dreadwing. Empire tech."

"Guess we're busted."

A slice of black light stabbed down from the ship, smashing into the stone circle. The ground went to pieces. Shockwaves, busted tiles flying everywhere.

Kael yanked Lyra behind a toppled column just as another beam erased a tower behind them.

"Why now?" he yelled, barely heard over the chaos.

"They tracked the vault, obviously!" Lyra shot back.

Another blast—closer. Smoke mushroomed up, spinning. Out of that smoke, a squad of armored goons dropped in, black plates, glowing red visors, weapons ready.

Shadowbrand.

Kael stood, staff ready.

He felt the fire again, but this time it wasn't wildfire. It was a blade.

"I'll hold 'em," he said.

Lyra looked like she wanted to argue, but something in his eyes made her stop.

"You got ten minutes before they level the place," she said. "Try not to get killed."

Kael grinned, rolling his shoulders.

"Not done being a legend."

Then the fire roared back, and that was that.