Flameborn: Heir of the Ember Throne

Kael stood dead center in the wrecked plaza, smoke curling around his legs like he'd woken up inside some haunted funeral. The Flamebound staff pulsed in his fist, emberglass glowing hot—little flickers of gold dancing in the gloom, like the world just couldn't decide if it wanted to give up or not. Overhead, the sky looked like it had lost a bar fight, all bruised reds and dirty grays, sunlight poking through in weird places, like someone forgot to close the blinds on the end of the world.

Emberfall's ruins shook every time the Empire's Dreadwing made another lazy circle above. That thing was a monster—sky-metal, pure silence, just hanging up there like a migraine you can't shake. Its engines barely made a sound, but somehow the dread of it pressed on you, heavy, like someone had thrown a second sky on top of the first.

Down below, shadows started to move. Not the good kind.

The soldiers spilling out of the Dreadwing—twelve, maybe more, who even counts at a time like this—wore black-gold armor, all fancy etchings of emberwolves and whatnot. Their faces hidden behind masks shaped like snarling beasts, with these dim red eyes that glowed like dying coals. They moved as one, too—silent, sharp, cutting through what was left of Emberfall like they were slicing up bread for breakfast. Except, you know, with more murder.

Behind Kael, Lyra crouched under a busted archway, blood making another try for freedom from wounds that didn't want to close. Her breathing was all sharp and uneven, like she was trying (and failing) to pretend it didn't hurt. Kael saw her white-knuckle grip on the staff, though. Not fooling anyone.

"Go!" he barked, not even glancing back. "I'll buy you time!"

"You'll die," she shot back, voice all shredded but stubborn as hell.

Kael didn't bother arguing. He just stepped forward, fingers tightening around the staff as it burned hotter, brighter. His eyes, which used to be ember-orange, now blazed full-on gold, like the relic itself had moved in and started paying rent. The fire inside him didn't have to shout anymore. It just... sang. Like it had been waiting to finally cut loose.

"Not yet," he muttered—mostly to the fire, not really to Lyra. "Not before I figure out what the hell I am."

First Shadowbrand came out of the smoke, blade drawn, moving smooth and quiet. The sword glowed with voidfire—nasty stuff, black flames that ate instead of burned. No warning, no epic speech, just straight at him.

Kael didn't hesitate. Reflex took over.

He spoke—not out loud, more like deep down in his bones, dredging up that old tongue from the Hall of Ash.

"Vahrak."

The sound vibrated in his chest. The staff caught fire, golden flames licking up its length. He met the blow, voidblade clashing against his staff, sparks flaring everywhere. He moved with the strike, ducked low, and jabbed the staff's butt into the soldier's ribs.

Boom—fire exploded at the contact point. The guy went flying, crashed into a burnt pillar, didn't get up.

No time to gloat. The fire inside Kael surged—familiar now, almost like an old friend who'd finally stopped being weird. It moved with him, through him, carrying something ancient. Instincts not really his, movements echoing a thousand Flamewardens before him. History in his bones.

Two more Shadowbrand came at him.

One jumped, blade high. The other slid in low, going for the flank.

Kael spun, staff whistling to catch the airborne strike—steel screamed against flame. He didn't pause, just swept back, caught the second blade, dropped low, and slammed the staff into the ground.

Golden fire shockwave—whoosh—sent both attackers flying.

For a heartbeat, everything got real quiet.

Then the smoke thinned, and more enemies stepped up—six, eight, didn't matter, they spread out, closing in. Weapons gleaming, footsteps soft as nightmares.

Kael's lungs screamed. His arms shook from the effort. He was stronger than before, sure, but he hadn't exactly trained for this. The staff made him powerful, not invincible. He needed time. He needed, honestly, a miracle.

That's when Lyra stood up, slow but stubborn, staff in hand.

"You said ten minutes," she gritted out, jaw clenched. "You've had five."

Kael gave a crooked smile. "Guess I'm running ahead of schedule for once."

Back to back, they stood, enemies circling, Emberfall's ruins watching like a crowd at an execution.

Then the sound changed.

The Dreadwing above groaned, dropping lower, engines kicking up a new, nasty hum.

"No," Lyra said, panic flickering in her eyes. "They're sending a Flamehunter."

Kael felt it before he saw. Heat, but cold underneath. Pressure, like gravity just doubled. Something stepped out of the warship, reeking of twisted fire. The air snapped and sizzled as the figure landed in a swirl of ash and burning wind.

Well, hell. Here we go.

The Flamehunter just stood there, right in front of them—a walking nightmare carved out of molten obsidian and pure stubbornness. Its armor didn't even sit still; it rippled, shifting from gooey to rock-hard like someone gave lava a mind of its own. Underneath, ember-bright veins pulsed, violence barely on a leash. No face, no eyes, just two burning coals glaring out from the helmet, like they'd rather burn a hole through you than bother with a stare.

And when it moved? Like the shadows finally said screw it and decided to walk around.

Kael clocked it right away. Not because he'd heard stories—instinct just screamed at him. This thing? Not your run-of-the-mill grunt.

Nah, this was a monster built to hunt people like him.

The Shadowbrand, those creeps, drifted back and circled up, quiet as ghosts.

The Flamehunter stopped, ten steps from Kael. When it spoke, the voice was weirdly smooth, almost bored, but cold. Not a hint of "human" in there.

"You are unclaimed. Your Flame is raw. Untempered. Unfed by lineage."

Kael just stared back, zero flinching. "Yeah? Still found me, didn't it."

"Fire burns in many. Not all are chosen to carry it."

Kael shrugged, raised his staff. "Don't need to be chosen. I am the fire."

The hunter cocked its head, not like it was annoyed or anything. Just… got it.

"Then burn."

And boom—everything exploded into chaos.

The Flamehunter came at him, way too fast, that blade—black as midnight and cold as betrayal—slicing the air. Kael didn't even think, just blocked by reflex, fire sparking up in defense. The hit sent him flying, smashing across the plaza. He hit the ground hard, rolled, landed on one knee, wind knocked out of him.

Lyra started forward, but the Shadowbrand pointed their weapons, holding her off. Not ready to kill—just making sure she stayed put.

Kael forced himself up.

The staff pulsed in his grip, not scared at all. Almost eager.

Fight with me, it seemed to whisper. I remember.

And Kael did remember. The hall of names. The woman forging. The weapon picking him, not the other way around. He reached for the fire inside, not the wild, angry part, but that deeper core—old as anything, full of meaning.

He slipped into a stance—one he'd never learned, but always somehow known.

The Flamewarden's stance.

Fire spilled over him, wrapping his arms and shoulders in gold. Not armor, not a shield—something more honest. Like a second skin, but made of purpose.

The Flamehunter lunged again, strikes coming in fast and mean.

Kael met him head-on. Parry. Twist. Step in. Hit the center.

The staff connected. Fire exploded.

The hunter stumbled.

Kael didn't let up. He spun a spiral of fire that knocked the thing off-balance. Saw his chance, staff up, ready to finish it—

But nope. The hunter bounced back.

A metal fist slammed into Kael's chest.

White-hot pain. He hit the stone, hard.

Didn't get back up.

---

The sky above him blurred into twilight, streaks of violet threading through clouds. Somewhere, Lyra was yelling, but it sounded like she was miles away. He couldn't move, couldn't answer.

Inside the flame again. Not as a memory—more like a question.

Some ancient voice welled up in him, not words exactly, more like a feeling.

Will you die here, sparkborn? Will you be ash before you rise?

Kael couldn't answer. He just… couldn't.

The fire showed him things.

The woman in the forge. Towers burning. Kids screaming. The end of everything his people ever built.

And then—something new.

Himself.

Not broken. Not lost.

Transformed. Wreathed in fire, not burned by it. Becoming the flame, not its victim.

The fire remembers. Will you?

Kael sucked in a breath. Air tasted like lightning.

He stood.

The staff burst into light in his hand, flame crawling up his arm, over his shoulders, across his brow.

He walked forward, and the fire didn't even scorch the stones he stepped on.

The Flamehunter hesitated.

Kael lifted the staff. Not as just a weapon.

As part of himself.

Three runes flared above the relic—old, heavy symbols burning in the air.

He swung the staff—wide arc.

A pillar of fire roared up under the hunter, gold and wild, swallowing it whole.

The hunter screamed, but not in pain.

In rage.

When the fire died off, the thing was still standing—but armor cracked, emberveins spitting sparks.

"You are not unbound," it hissed. "You are heir."

Kael had no clue what that meant, but the word echoed inside him like a bell.

Before anybody could blink, a horn blasted out. Sharp. Urgent.

The Dreadwing was rising. The Flamehunter slipped back, retreating into the Shadowbrand's circle.

"You are marked," it said. "We'll find you again."

Smoke billowed. The hunter vanished.Kael stood there, shaking.Lyra ran to him, still catching her breath.

"You drove them off."

Kael nodded. Still couldn't find his voice.

"They know what you are now," she whispered.

He nodded again. "Yeah. So do I."

Lyra searched his face. "So… what are you?"

Kael turned to the shattered towers of Emberfall, voice rough but certain.

"Flameborn."