Ashes Of The First Flame
The descent from Aerosthal was harder than the climb.
Kael's newly awakened wings flickered and hissed behind him—sometimes strong enough to lift him inches off the ground, sometimes weak and fragile like dying embers. They weren't fully formed. Not yet. And they drained his energy with every flicker.
"You need rest," Mira urged as they descended the shattered stairways. "That seal bonded to your soul. It's rewriting you from the inside."
"I don't have time to rest," Kael replied, wiping blood from his nose. "The seals are calling. Malrekh's not waiting."
They reached the ground just before dawn.
And the sky was wrong again.
---
Smoke choked the eastern horizon.
A red pillar of fire twisted up into the clouds, miles away—a beacon, blazing in a place no fire should burn.
Tana stepped beside Kael, face grim. "That's not a fire."
"What is it?"
Korrin spit into the dirt. "A tomb. One that's been opened."
Mira checked her satchel, pulled out a page from the wind-eater's ash-stained journal.
"It matches. That's the site of the First Flame—the cradle where the ancient hunters received their power."
Marek's face darkened. "We never found it. We thought it was a myth."
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"It's not."
---
They rode hard for two days.
The land grew darker, colder. Dead forests lined their path, and the air smelled like burned hair and rusted iron. Strange birds circled overhead—wingless, with eyes that followed without blinking.
Kael barely slept. Visions haunted him again.
He saw the First Hunters standing around a monolith of fire, branding themselves with glowing runes. He saw demons crawling through cracks in the earth. He saw himself—alone in a wasteland, spear broken, screaming to the sky.
But one image burned brighter than the rest:
A sword.
Half-buried in stone.
Forged in the First Flame.
Waiting.
---
They reached the edge of the Tomb of Cindrath by sunset on the third day.
The tomb was massive—a crater surrounded by broken obelisks, each engraved with names long erased by time. At the center stood a brazier the size of a fortress, burning with fire so white it was almost blue.
And just before it…
The sword.
Embedded in a pedestal of obsidian, glowing faintly.
Kael stepped toward it.
The others hung back.
---
As Kael drew closer, whispers flooded his ears.
Not Malrekh this time.
Something older.
> "Son of Fire. Flame-born. This is your burden…"
The air shimmered.
And suddenly, Kael stood alone in the crater.
Everything else faded—his companions, the sky, even the tomb.
He stood in memory.
And across from him stood a figure in golden armor, flames rising from its shoulders, sword in hand.
Kael raised his spear. "Who are you?"
The figure's voice echoed like a furnace.
> "I am the First Flame. The one who chose the Greyflame line."
Kael stepped forward, cautious.
"What is this place?"
> "A crucible. You do not take the First Flame's gift. You earn it."
Kael frowned.
"Then test me."
---
The First Flame charged.
Its blade struck like lightning—fast, brutal, precise. Kael blocked the first strike, ducked the second, countered with a thrust from Neviran's Fang. Fire erupted where their weapons met.
But Kael was slower. Weaker.
The First Flame knocked him flat with a blast of burning wind.
> "You carry two Seals," the figure growled. "But still you hesitate. Still you question."
Kael rose, panting. "Because I don't want power."
The First Flame raised its sword. "Then you are unworthy."
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"I don't want power. I want purpose."
---
The battlefield shifted—becoming a burning forest.
Then a flooded battlefield.
Then the archives.
Kael fought through each, reliving his worst moments—Vosk's death, his mother's disappearance, the Vessel boy's suffering. Every strike chipped away at his strength.
But he kept moving.
Kept fighting.
Until at last, the First Flame stood still, lowering its sword.
> "You seek not vengeance. But balance. Not war. But peace through fire. You are Greyflame."
Kael's body trembled, barely standing.
The First Flame opened its hand.
And the sword floated to Kael.
---
He grasped the hilt.
Fire surged through him—white-hot, not like anything he'd ever felt. It wasn't destruction. It was creation through pain. A force that turned scars into strength. Fear into focus.
The blade whispered its name into his mind.
> "Rendlight."
And the world returned.
---
Kael stood alone at the center of the crater, sword in hand.
Rendlight glowed with embers that pulsed to his heartbeat. The Seal on his chest burned brighter. His wings flared out once—more solid now, more real.
The others stared in awe.
Mira knelt. "You've claimed it."
Marek spoke low. "The sword of the First Flame. Lost for a thousand years."
Korrin gave a whistle. "Bet that cuts demons like butter."
Kael looked at the blade.
Then toward the horizon.
"We're running out of time."
---
Later, around the fire, Mira shared what she had deciphered from the last Seal scroll:
> "The final three Seals are hidden where the lines of fate cross. The 'Scorched Gate,' the 'Heart of the Mountain,' and the 'Grave of Stars.' All must be claimed before the Solstice, or Malrekh's vessel will be chosen by blood."
Kael traced a line across the map.
"We go south," he said. "To the Scorched Gate. The rest will follow."
Tana stirred. "What if we don't reach them in time?"
Kael's eyes met hers.
"Then I burn the gate myself."
---
That night, Kael sat alone with the sword across his knees.
Rendlight pulsed with ancient memory—thousands of battles, millions of lives, fire without end.
He w
hispered to the weapon.
"To protect. Not to destroy."
The blade answered:
> "Then wield me like flame in a storm."
Kael stared at the stars.
Knowing Malrekh watched from the dark.
And whispered:
"I'm coming for you."