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

She hadn't spoken that name—Ilera—in years.

Not since the burning of Silverhold.

Not since the betrayal beneath the bell tower.

Standing in the stone mouth of Iskarath's lower sanctum, her golden-threaded hair glinting in the torchlight. The same way Rien remembered. The same eyes, the same tilt of head. Even the scar beneath her chin.

"You can't be real," Rien whispered.

"I'm not," the Warden replied. "But you believe I am. That's enough."

Ashweld pulsed from across the room.

The Severers stood ready, but none moved. Not even Seron.

Because they, too, could feel it: the pain Rien bore. The weight of this memory made flesh.

Ilera—the Warden—walked forward.

You held my hand while Silverhold crumbled, and you begged me to stay.

The Warden's blade rose. No steel—just filaments of burning truth, sharpened by lies.

"You will kneel. Not because I demand it.

But because you've already broken once.

And now, I am the shard that finishes the cut."

But Rien didn't reach for Ashweld.

The thread-blade fizzled. Like fire denied oxygen.

"You are a lie made from my truth.

But I am no longer made of memory."

Her hands flared with a light the Warden could not imitate.

"You're the Loom's puppet, wearing her smile.

But I've stopped looking backward."

"I forgive you," Rien said—not to the Warden, but to the memory.

"But I don't belong to you anymore."

The Warden screamed—a sound like a hundred rewritten lives howling in grief.

She fractured—not just body, but meaning.

Each false memory peeled off her like burning pages. Each word she spoke echoed backward into silence.

Vel stepped forward. "That wasn't a fight."

"It was," Rien replied. "But I didn't fight her. I fought me."

Far away, the Loom thrashed. It had poured everything into that Warden. Every broken memory. Every weapon made from love.

In rage, it summoned something deeper.

The Memory That Fights Back