The Ember’s Vigil

The Elder of Zūhren Laza, Orloth, stood before the gathered faithful, his weathered hands raised to the heavens, where stars twinkled faintly through the veil of smoke curling upward from the ritual flames. The glow of these flames cast long, twisting shadows upon the sacred ground, illuminating the ancient stone circle where the Lazæns had gathered for centuries.

The ground was still soft from the recent rains. The air was thick with the scent of burning resin and mingled with the earthy scent of the wet soil beneath their feet. The congregation knelt in reverence, their faces illuminated by the flickering embers of remembrance, and the night hummed with the sounds of wind brushing through the empty branches of the surrounding trees.

Every ten years, on the Night of Ashes, the people gathered to mourn. The sacred circle, long since abandoned by the hands of those who had once tended it, had seen many such gatherings, yet tonight felt different. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a red, cold light upon the land, and the ground itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the Elder's words. Tonight, Orloth Zūhren would speak.

"Two hundred years have passed since the night the flames turned against us. We, who once kindled the sacred fire, were consumed by its betrayal. On the night of Zūhrena, when the stars aligned and the first flames of creation were meant to burn in celebration, the three kingdoms, Vellora, Læondale, and Moore, marched upon our village."

The Elder's voice rose above the crackling fire, filling the air, as the people before him remained silent, their faces masked in the shadows cast by the flames. The firelight danced across the jagged rocks that bordered the sacred ground, the stones worn smooth by generations of footsteps. The wind shifted, rustling the dry leaves that clung to the ground and sweeping them over the sacred passages that wound their way through the village. They had once been filled with the sacred waters, the streams that connected the people to Orūzh, but now, they lay dry, their channels cracked and desolate.

"Their command was absolute: 'Let no soul dare to intervene. One who resists is to be struck down without mercy.'"

The air grew still, and for a moment, it seemed the flames faltered as if to honour the ancient words. Orloth's eyes darkened as he envisioned the ashes of what had once been a community. The remnants of the ancient village, a silhouette of decay. The once-fertile lands that had supported their ancestors now stood barren, the soil cracked and parched.

"The Lazæns, bound to the land, to Orūzh, were unprepared for the storm that befell them. The night was silent before the slaughter, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken warnings. Then, like a shadow stretching over the land, they came. The earth trembled beneath their heel, the sky engulfed with the smoke of torches and steel."

Orloth's gaze drifted to the remains of the ancient stone altars, now half-buried in the earth, forgotten relics of a time. "We were to welcome renewal. We were to light the fire of life. But that night, we burned."

A chill passed through the air, the flames flickering erratically, their light casting fleeting shadows across the ruins of the ancient village. The firelight illuminated the ink paintings of the sacred tree, its twisted branches and roots captured in delicate strokes.

"Our ancestors stood, but against their swords, they were felled. They fought with hands that had only known the warmth of the soil, with voices that had only known the cadence of song. The festival of Zūhrena, once a time of birth and creation, became a dirge of ruin. The flames that should have guided the spirits of birth were twisted into instruments of death."

The Elder's voice softened with the weight of the loss, letting the crackle of the fire fill the void left by his words. His feet shifted in the ash-laden ground beneath him.

"And the Orūzh…" The Elder's voice wavered, just for a moment, before he pressed on, his breath heavy. "The sacred tree was reaped. They sought its power, its roots, believing them to be vessels of strength, of dominion. The brothers, the rulers of the sundered kingdoms, each tore a root from the earth, severing the balance that had bound this land since the first dawn."

The fire flickered, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like the roots of the sacred tree itself.

"With each root they stole, our world darkened. The blood of the Lazæns soaked the very earth from which Orūzh had risen."

The winds stilled as Orloth's eyes met the horizon beyond the bridge, where the remnants of Orūzh lay broken. The dark silhouette of the broken tree stood against the ember sky.

"By the time the sun crept over the horizon, the village was no more. Silence lingered. The Orūzh stood ravaged, its roots twisted into thrones for false kings. The land was broken."

A soft murmur rose from the gathered people. They were not here to mourn, not for vengeance nor war, but to remember. To rekindle the spark that had been taken from them. Orloth Zūhren's voice softened as he gazed upon the broken tree.

"But we remember. The flame has not died. It sleeps. We shall not let it remain dormant forever. We gather not in sorrow but in hope. We gather beneath what remains of Orūzh to rekindle the fire. The power of Orūzh awaits to be awoken."

His hands rose higher, fingers tracing the path of the flames before him, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

"Look to the flames, children of Orūzh. Watch as they rise. We will be reborn. For as long as we stand, the light of Orūzh will never fade. This night, we pray for awakening. For the return of the fire, for the return of the Orūzh."

The flames crackled louder, the embers rising into the sky. Orloth bowed his head alongside elders Ylath Væsh and Maevra Kaelth. In unison, they whispered, "We call upon the spirit of Orūzh, not to destroy, but to renew. To reignite the fire of life, the fire of creation."

The fire roared in response, the flames growing higher, reaching towards the sky. The people knelt in unison, their ancient prayers rising in harmony with the flames, believing that this night, the power of Orūzh would stir once more.

The night itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the call to be answered.