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

Maerai moved through the firelit grove like one born of it.

Where her feet passed, embers bent in respect. Even the flame-veined trees bowed slightly, as if remembering something ancient and terrible.

She knelt across from Rien, her molten eyes studying every line in the younger girl's face.

"You carry the fire," she said. "But you do not yet know how to speak with it."

"I don't want to speak to it. I want to wield it."

Maerai's smile was quiet. And sad.

"Then you'll never survive the Loom."

Vel and Seron watched from a distance as Maerai drew symbols into the ash with her fingers—glyphs older than the Emberlight tongue. Even Ashweld pulsed in response, as if recognizing kin.

Kaelen stood behind Rien, ever a silent shadow. His fire had returned, but it danced uncertainly. Not because of fear—but because Maerai's presence twisted the rules of heat and memory alike.

"You were a myth," he said to her.

"So are you," she answered, "until you're remembered."

"The Loom remembered you into existence. What makes you different from its other weapons?"

Maerai drew one last symbol, then looked up.

She pressed her palm to the ash, and the ground shimmered.

"You want to destroy the Loom?" she asked Rien.

"I want to break its grip on the world."

"Then you must learn to burn in ways fire was never meant to."

Maerai reached into the air—no flame, no spark—and plucked a thread. Barely visible. Spun from memory and narrative itself.

"This is not magic," she said. "This is authorship. The fire behind the flame. The story beneath the skin."

Rien obeyed—and the sky flickered.

And a tree that had always stood to the east of the pool... now stood to the west.

"I didn't," Maerai said. "She did."

Rien dropped the thread, hands shaking.

"That's what the Loom does," she whispered.

"Yes," Maerai said. "And it must be unmade."

Rien sat alone, Ashweld across her knees. The blade was trembling—not in fear, but in recognition. It had once burned beside Maerai in an older war.

"If we follow her… what happens to us?"

"We change," Rien answered. "Or we burn."

"Only one of those ends with the world remade."

But far beyond their firelit sanctuary, in the Woven Spire, the Loom pulsed in silence.

It had given Maerai back to the world.

Each choice Rien made brought another thread taut.

Each act of resistance... was part of the pattern.

Because the Loom had not lost control.

The Scorchborn's Truth