Chapter 3: The Road to Elarion

The road stretched like a ribbon of dirt and stone, winding its way through valleys blanketed in wild grass and hills dotted with black pines. For the first time in his life, Kael walked a path that didn't end at the stables or the village square. Every step forward carried him farther from home, closer to the unknown future waiting in Elarion.

Beside him walked three others summoned from the neighboring towns—Aven, a wiry boy with sharp eyes and quicker hands; Mira, a quiet healer's apprentice; and Berrin, a broad-shouldered baker's son who carried his satchel like it was full of flour instead of clothing.

None of them had ever met before the summons. Now they shared a road, and an unspoken fear.

"We're not soldiers," Berrin grumbled, adjusting his pack for the third time that hour. "Why would the king summon people like us?"

Kael didn't answer. He'd been asking himself the same question for days.

"Maybe we're just bait," Aven muttered under his breath. "Or distractions for something worse."

Mira flinched at that, clutching the wooden charm around her neck. "Don't say that."

Kael spoke for the first time in an hour. "Whatever the reason, we're already in it. Might as well find out why."

The others fell silent.

By midday, they stopped near a fallen tree, resting in its shade. The forest around them was thick and heavy with heat. Cicadas buzzed. The smell of pine and wet bark filled the air.

Kael took out the cloth his mother had given him. The symbol—an ash tree burning—seemed to pulse faintly under the light. He traced the threads with his thumb, remembering the way she'd looked at him the morning he left. Not with fear, but with pride.

"Where are you from?" Mira asked, sitting beside him.

"Brinmere," Kael said. "North of the old river."

"I've heard of it. Quiet place."

"Not lately."

Mira looked down. "My village lost two to the Blightborn last season. My teacher says they're growing bolder, pushing farther west."

Kael's stomach twisted. "I thought the border was protected."

She shook her head. "Not anymore. The Order's stretched thin. And the magic's… fading."

The word hung in the air like fog. Magic. It was still real, still whispered in stories and felt in deep places of the world, but few admitted how fragile it had become.

Kael looked down at the cloth again. Could something as old as the Everflame truly awaken in someone like him?

They made camp that night under a cluster of elder trees. Aven disappeared into the woods and returned with wild berries. Berrin, to everyone's surprise, managed to start a fire with flint and dry grass.

Kael offered to take first watch.

The others curled up in their cloaks, the fire crackling softly. Kael sat with his back to a stone, eyes on the trees.

It was quiet—too quiet.

Then he heard it. A whisper. Faint. Like breath sliding between branches.

He stood slowly, hand on the wooden hilt of his training blade.

A shape moved between the trees. Too tall for a deer. Too smooth for a man.

Kael's heart pounded. "Who's there?"

No answer. Just the sound of something breathing.

The firelight flickered—and then it went out.

Darkness fell like a wave.

Kael spun around, eyes wide. "Aven? Mira? Berrin!"

Something moved fast. A blur of shadow and cold wind. Aven let out a sharp cry, then silence.

Kael grabbed his blade and charged toward the noise.

A figure loomed ahead—tall, twisted, its face a mask of bone and black teeth.

Blightborn.

The creature hissed, slashing with claws tipped in rot.

Kael ducked, rolled, and swung wildly. His blade bounced off the thing's arm, barely slowing it. The creature lunged, and Kael stumbled back, falling hard against the earth.

A cry rang out—Mira's. Then a flash of light.

Aven had drawn a dagger, blood trailing from his side, but his stance was defiant.

Kael scrambled to his feet. The creature raised a claw—and Kael screamed.

The cloth in his pocket ignited.

Not with fire, but with light.

White-hot and blinding, it burst from his chest like a falling star, slamming into the Blightborn with a roar of heat.

The creature shrieked. Its skin burned and peeled, turning to ash in seconds.

Then—silence.

Kael stood shaking, the cloth in his hand glowing faintly, then dimming.

The others stared at him.

"What… was that?" Berrin whispered.

"I—I don't know," Kael gasped.

Aven nodded slowly. "I think you just saved us."

Kael collapsed to his knees.

They didn't sleep the rest of that night.

Mira treated Aven's wound while Berrin built the fire again. No one spoke of what had happened, not directly. But something had changed between them.

Kael felt it.

They looked at him differently now. Not just as another village boy. But as someone… touched by something ancient.

Later, alone with Mira as she refilled her flask at the stream, she spoke softly.

"That cloth… the flame. It's old magic. From before the Sundering. I've only read of it in scrolls."

"I don't understand it," Kael said. "It just… happened."

"Maybe it's not about understanding," she said, eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Maybe it's about choosing."

Kael looked at his hands.

Burned. Trembling. But alive.

He wasn't a warrior. Not yet.

But something inside him refused to surrender.

He thought of Lira. Of his mother. Of the voice in the fire.

And he made a silent promise:

He would not run.