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

The path to the surface was no longer made of stone.

Rien stepped carefully across them, each one blank until her foot touched it. With every step, words appeared beneath her: a living account of what she was doing—as she did it.

"She walks like a god pretending to be a girl," one line read.

"She mourns like a girl pretending to be a god," read another.

"No," Rien said. "It's challenging me to correct it."

Ashweld's flame flared—and the words burned away, replaced by a single, glowing phrase:

And when it reopened its fiery eye, a silhouette stood between clouds and flame.

His hair the color of ember-silver, his face torn by time and fire.

"No…" Rien's voice cracked. "That's impossible."

Seron's face went pale. "Who is he?"

Vel's hand hovered near her blade. "The one who died in the siege of Emberhold?"

Because the figure was descending.

And now the Shaper had rewritten his death.

His eyes were no longer his—they were ink-black, with gold threads webbed through.

"You died defending me," she whispered.

He smiled—a hollow echo of what she remembered.

The Loom showed me the truth: that you've always needed saving.

Even if it means saving you from yourself."

He drew a blade—not steel, but regret, woven into the shape of a sword.

It shimmered with things left unsaid.

"Stop this," she said. "Let me remember you right."

"No," he replied. "You will remember me as I am now."

He still remembered how to hold back.

Rien didn't raise Ashweld. She couldn't.

This wasn't war. This was grief, weaponized.

He stood beside her, shoulders heaving, eyes burning.

"Whatever it is—it's not your brother.

You are not the sum of your pain."

Fire flared—not to burn, but to reveal.

And for a breathless moment, the Shaper's illusion cracked.

The man flickered—his smile replaced by a blank, threadbare face, and then returned.

Each sentence peeled the illusion back.

The thing that wore her brother's face screamed—its body unraveling in loops of failed fiction.

Rien stood firm, tears burning down her cheeks.

Above them, the sky stitched itself back into place.

For the first time since its birth, it felt something alien:

The Rewritten Dead