AshesFallintoLight

In a land fractured by elemental extremes and ancient grudges, five kingdoms stand divided — each shaped by its climate, customs, and uneasy relationship with the monstrous frontier known only as the Wasteland.

For generations, the kingdoms of Solkar, Thal, Nordr, Virellia, and Alzhan have fought among themselves — over borders, trade, and pride — while the Wasteland's creeping horrors press ever closer. From this cursed land come the Oldspawn — beasts of myth and nightmare, whose hearts, when consumed, fuse with one’s own, birthing magic at a terrible cost. Power, after all, is never without sacrifice.

Evelyn — an orphan from a border outpost — is quiet, clever, and far more dangerous than she knows. When she survives a raid on her village and consumes a fractured core-heart, she becomes something new: a bearer of wild magic not bound to any kingdom's laws or customs. Her abilities are raw and unstable, and she draws the attention of those who would shape her into a weapon.
At her side is Torren, her childhood friend — steadfast, brave, and unknowingly the source of her first love. But while Evelyn’s path leads her deeper into the politics and power of the Five Realms, Torren’s takes him elsewhere: to duty, to transformation, and ultimately, to love beyond their bond.

Guiding Evelyn is the enigmatic scholar Vareth, a rogue archivist exiled from Alzhan’s great think-towers. Vareth believes Evelyn’s magic may be the key to ending the Wasteland’s expansion — or the cause of its rebirth. He teaches her the truth of the Oldspawn, of core-magic, and the First Fire, a forgotten power lost to time.

But in the depths of the Wasteland stirs something older than monsters. Once a god-emperor of a fallen sixth kingdom, now corrupted by centuries of core-consumption, the being known as The Hollow King has begun to move again. His twisted children — the Echoed, part-human, part-beast — are spreading across the borderlands.

And he wants Evelyn.

To survive, the kingdoms must unite. But can old enemies find common ground — when power is bonded in blood, bone, and the heartfire of beasts?

Heartfire of the Wastes

The Waste gave no welcome.

As the Embercallers rode, the land changed beneath them. What had once been ash dunes and bone-scattered plains gave way to broken metal, half-swallowed by time—ruined war machines, blades of unmelting steel jutted from the earth like shattered ribs, and towers rusted into thorn-like spires clawed at a sulfur sky. The ground here did not shift under hooves. It sang.

Not with music. With memory.

Each clang of the mounts' tread against steel ground sparked echoes, fragments of voices too old to name—battle cries, lullabies, prayers. It was a graveyard of weapons and those who'd once wielded them.

Torren whispered, "This place is cursed."

The lead Embercaller, still unnamed, glanced back. "No. Not cursed. Remembered."

She pointed ahead, to the horizon, where the jagged remnants of a colossal forge-city rose in silhouette—a great inverted dome built into a canyon, ringed with fractured monoliths and blackened statues. Wind howled between the pillars, carrying the faint scent of blood and burnt copper.

"The Cradle," she said. "This is where the First Flame was kindled. Where your kind was forged, long before the Guild, long before the Core Wars."

The woman nodded. "Those bound to heartfire not by ritual, but by nature. You weren't given the flame, Evelyn. You are its return."

They dismounted before the gate—a rust-wrought archway engraved with a thousand names, most lost to corrosion. But one, near the center, glowed faintly as Evelyn passed her hand over it.

Vaerna. The name pulsed. The flame inside her core stirred in response.

"Not who," said another Embercaller. "When."

Before Evelyn could speak, the gates groaned open. Not pushed. Not pulled. They responded. As if recognizing her presence. The forge-city beckoned them inward.

Inside was no city, not anymore. It was a labyrinth of broken forges, glowing fissures, and relics of forgotten wars. Sword hilts fused to stone. Helmets warped by heat. Every corner whispered not just of death—but of intent. This had been a place of making. And of undoing.

At the heart of the forge-chasm, they found the altar.

It was a slab of obsidian etched in a spiral of blade-points, and at its center, a broken circlet lay in a bed of white fire.

Not flame. Not heat. Memory.

The lead Embercaller turned to Evelyn. "This is what you were meant to carry."

Evelyn stared down at the circlet, her pulse steady, her breath shallow.

"Then the flame dies. For good, this time."

No one moved. Even Torren remained silent.

Evelyn reached forward—hesitated—and then touched the circlet.

It didn't burn. It didn't welcome.

A word formed in her mouth, not one she knew, not one she understood.

All around her, the Cradle of Blades awoke—fires erupting from old forges, runes lighting across stone, and in the deep walls, the sound of something stirring.

Evelyn turned, eyes aglow, voice firm.

"We ride again. But this time, not as seekers."

"This time, as bearers of the First Flame."

The Cradle of Blades