Francis_9439

Ashes of the First Flame

A novel by [Francis 9439]

For centuries, the world of Elaris has burned under the divine light of the First Flame, a sacred fire worshiped by the tyrannical Solar Dominion — a theocratic empire that claims godhood and unity through conquest. The Empress rules with holy fire and iron will, casting down cities that refuse her light, branding all who resist as heretics and rebels.

But across the shattered lands of the Free Marches, a spark of defiance refuses to die.

Kaelen Virelth, the exiled son of a disgraced noble house, is thrust into leadership after his brother is assassinated. Once a scholar and a pacifist, Kaelen becomes the reluctant face of a rebellion. As war spreads like wildfire, Kaelen must decide whether to become a killer to save the world — or lose everything he loves.

On the other side of the war, Serenya Valir, a devoted priestess of the Flame, begins to question the cost of blind faith. Sent to root out traitors within the Dominion, she uncovers dark secrets buried beneath sacred temples — and a prophecy foretelling a choice that will either redeem the world or end it in ash.

Amid the chaos rise other forces: the exiled Scorched Order, mage-knights blamed for a forgotten catastrophe; the elemental Aetherborn Tribes, whose magic the Dominion fears and hates; and the seductive spies of the Sable Garden, who pull strings behind every throne.

As old gods stir and ancient powers awaken, love blooms between enemies, loyalty crumbles into betrayal, and the line between salvation and damnation blurs. To stop the cycle of fire and ruin, someone must destroy the First Flame — or become its final bearer.

But power never dies quietly.

Ashes of  the First Flame

Kaelen returned to the grove at dusk.

No one had dared enter since the day the roots turned skyward. The upside-down tree at its center now pulsed with a dull crimson glow, and the whispers had changed. They no longer sounded like grief.

And that was the most dangerous part.

He stood at the edge, eyes fixed on the flame-shaped blossom high in the branches.

"Lira," he said aloud, though he knew it wasn't her.

"If you're in there… give me a sign."

But the ember-scar on his palm flared hot. Not warm. Not gentle.

The air inside the grove was heavy. Threads of golden pollen drifted like memories unspun. As he passed through them, visions flickered in his mind—not just of his own past, but of possible ones.

He saw Ashrel kneeling before a throne of bone.

He blinked them away, fighting their pull.

"This is not the Loom," he growled.

At the heart of the grove, the tree opened.

Not like bark splitting, but like a mouth unsealing. Inside was a hollow, pulsing with dark light. And floating there, above the roots, was a shape.

It was a figure made of unwoven stories. A thousand nearly-lived lives, stitched into a husk of flesh and ember.

Its voice was every voice Kaelen had ever loved—layered together in a dissonant chorus.

"You remember them," it whispered.

"So do I. I am what you chose to forget."

"You're not real. You're a shadow."

"Not real? Then why do you feel me? Why do you know me?"

And it extended one hand, a gesture Lira had once made in a quiet moment, long ago.

"You sacrificed for the world," the figure said.

"Let me offer you a world where you never had to."

The ember on his palm seared like a brand.

"I don't want to forget them," he said.

The figure's expression flickered. Confusion? Rage?

"You can't hold grief and reject comfort forever. It changes you."

Vines lashed upward. Names screamed through the leaves. The upside-down tree cracked like thunder.

he plunged his hand into the heart of the tree.

The ember flared. The illusion shrieked. The vision-world exploded into cinders.

And when Kaelen opened his eyes…

The figure was still there—flickering, weakened.

"You touched me now," it whispered.

The Grove Opens