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 revealed itself only when they stopped looking for it.

It was Elyra who noticed it first—barely more than a crease in the ground, a line where the ash refused to settle. She knelt, fingers brushing over scorched stone, and whispered something in the old tongue, the syllables sharp and trembling.

Then, with a groan like the breaking of ancient wood, the seam in the ground opened.

A stairway spiraled downward into blackness.

No torches. No wards. No marks to say who had built it.

"The Vault," she murmured. "It's not just a place."

The others stood still. Even Vel looked uncertain. Kaelen, who feared little and trusted even less, gripped the hilt of his sword like it might be the last true thing left.

"We don't know what's down there," he said quietly.

"We know enough," Rien answered. "It's where they buried the truth."

Into the Deep Stitch

The light from the surface vanished after the tenth step.

The air changed—cool and thick, scented with copper and dust, like a tomb untouched for generations. Their flames, carried on torches and threads, barely pushed back the dark.

Walls of black stone closed around them—etched with strange symbols that seemed to shift when not directly looked at.

"These are Seamwright glyphs," Maerai whispered, running her fingers along one. "But older than his hand. Much older."

"Older than the Loom?" Lira asked.

"Maybe. Or maybe part of it."

The deeper they went, the more the silence pressed inward—until even thought felt like a risk.

A circular chamber. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly still.

And in the center—a pedestal of white flame.

It pulsed once as they stepped into the room.

Not a thread like those Rien wore. This was a first thread. A root strand. Pure and whole. Coiled upon itself, glowing with the memories of a world before names.

"This is where the Loom began," Elyra whispered. "Before they taught it to lie."

The flame-thread shimmered, sensing her presence, recognizing the echo of fire in her blood.

It pulsed again—and her vision fractured.

Not pain. Not illusion. Just truth.

She saw the Loom—not as a fortress or a power, but as an idea. A system born to keep the world from collapsing into chaos. It had not always lied. It had once remembered.

She saw names stripped from the dead.

She saw herself—a dozen versions—some that died in childhood, others raised by Seamwrights, one who became a weapon, another who joined the Loom willingly.

"You are the thread that frayed," a voice echoed through her. "The one the Loom could not bind."

"Then I'll be the one to burn it down."

A Warning Etched in Flame

Words formed in the air above it—ancient, searing, incomplete.

"WHEN THE THREAD REMEMBERS, THE LOOM UNMAKES."

Maerai gasped. "It's not just afraid of the past… it's bound by it."

"And if we unbind enough of it," Rien said slowly, "the whole thing falls."

"Not to fight the Loom's army. Not to take their cities. But to unravel the stories they've rewritten. To remind the world of who they were before."

The Vault Beneath the Flame