Fractures in Flame

It started with a whisper.

Not one he heard, but one that trembled through the marrow of his bones—like some ancient note struck across the centuries that finally reached its echo. Kael Morgan sat upright in bed, sweat slick across his skin, gasping like a drowning man.

The world around him was wrong. Too still. Too quiet.

And his hand was on fire.

Not literally...no flame burned his skin...but heat radiated from his palm, glowing through the gaps in his fingers. He stared at it, wide-eyed, chest hammering as breath caught in his throat.

The mark was back.

A spiral of blue, etched like molten glass into the skin just below his thumb. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, faintly humming with something that felt alive. It hadn't faded like before. It hadn't vanished with sleep.

Kael stumbled out of bed, knocking over a stack of old books. His studio apartment was dark except for the low hum of city light through the blinds. Outside, Portland's streets flickered with midnight neon and drizzle. Inside, it was chaos: a mess of metal scraps, forging tools, notebooks filled with strange sketches he'd drawn in half-sleep.

He crossed to the mirror.

A lean, pale face stared back at him, hair dark and damp, eyes wide with panic. But something had changed. A flicker in his reflection, like a second image superimposed beneath his own.

A man older than time.

Eyes like blue suns.

A crown of fire.

Twin blades crisscrossed across his back.

Kael blinked. The vision vanished.

"No, no, no" he muttered, backing away. "Not again."

This wasn't the first time. The visions had started three weeks ago after the crash, the one that should have killed him. A van spun through an intersection. A child frozen in its path. Kael had moved without thinking, thrown the boy clear, and then...

Impact.

Silence.

Darkness.

He'd woken in the hospital with a concussion, a few cracked ribs, and a glowing blue mark on his palm.

And since then? Visions. Heat. Nightmares. Words in languages he couldn't remember learning. And instincts, terrifying instincts, that guided his body like a weapon forged long ago.

Kael pressed his hand against the wall to steady himself.

He wasn't crazy. He wasn't sick. Something had changed. Something had awakened.

And it was getting stronger.

Two Hours Later – Eastbank Forge, 4:10 a.m.

The forge roared to life like a beast breathing fire for the first time in centuries.

Kael stood before the flames, shirtless, a thick leather apron covering his chest. His breath steamed in the cold air. He didn't know why he was here. Only that he had to be. That his blood wouldn't settle unless the hammer was in his hand.

He'd started working at the Eastbank Forge last summer, an odd job found through a college flyer. The old blacksmith, Martin Rudd, had taken a liking to Kael's quiet nature and precision. The shop catered to re-enactors, knife collectors, and the occasional historical weapon request.

But tonight Kael wasn't making for customers.

Tonight he was making for something else.

He reached for a chunk of raw iron, tossing it onto the anvil. The furnace howled as he pumped the bellows, and the heat curled around his arms like a greeting. Not oppressive. Not painful.

Welcoming.

He set the metal in the fire, then closed his eyes.

It was like he remembered it before it even happened. How many strikes. What angle. Where to bend, where to cool. He could feel the energy in the metal, like it was speaking to him, no, singing.

He didn't understand it. But he knew it.

With slow, deliberate movement, he pulled the iron from the flame and raised the hammer.

The first strike rang out like a bell in a cathedral.The second, faster.The third, a rhythm.The fourth, a storm.

He lost himself in it, motion, heat, power, memory.

For a moment, he wasn't Kael Morgan. He wasn't nineteen. He wasn't scared.

He was Azuran, Sovereign of the Ninth Flame, reforging the soul of a blade that had broken during the last war of heaven.

The hammer paused mid-air.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

Kael pulled back, breath shaking. The metal on the anvil still glowed, but now it shimmered faintly—not orange or white, but blue, flickering with that same spiral pattern etched into his palm.

He dropped the hammer.

It clanged against the floor, echoing too loud, too long.

Later That Morning – Westfield University Campus

Kael tried to forget.

He showered, dressed, shoved the strange blade into his backpack, and rode the bus to class like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just accidentally enchanted a weapon with flame that didn't belong in this world.

The lecture hall was mostly empty when he arrived. Eastern Civilizations and Mythical Constructs. Ironically fitting.

He took his usual spot near the back, avoiding the handful of early arrivals. His head ached. The mark on his hand still pulsed beneath his sleeve.

"Rough morning?"

The voice belonged to Selene Navarro.

Kael stiffened.

She sat three seats over—close enough to hear, not close enough to be casual. She always sat like that. Same time. Same row. Never spoke to him until today.

Selene was… unusual. Short dark hair, sharp eyes, combat boots and a long coat no matter the weather. She carried a flask around like she needed it more than air. Rumor said she practiced some kind of obscure street-level spirituality, maybe even worked with spirits in the slums near the riverfront.

Kael glanced at her. "You could say that."

Selene tilted her head. Her gaze lingered on his sleeve.

"You're glowing," she said flatly.

Kael tensed. "What?"

She sipped from her flask, then leaned forward slightly.

"I'm not normal, Morgan. I see things most people don't. And whatever you've got inside you? It's flaring like a damn solar flare. Like it wants to tear a hole through your spine and shout your name to the world."

Kael stared at her.

"...What are you talking about?"

She gave a lazy smirk. "I'm talking about the fact that you're waking up. Whatever you are. Whatever you used to be. It's bleeding through."

He blinked.

"You… believe me?"

Selene shrugged. "I believe in a lot of things. Doesn't mean I like them."

Kael swallowed.

She leaned in closer. "Tell me, hotshot—ever heard of the Azure Flame?"

Elsewhere – The City Slums

In an abandoned parking garage soaked in graffiti and old needles, something inhuman crouched above a sleeping homeless man.

Its form flickered—sometimes a man, sometimes a beast, sometimes something entirely wrong. Its eyes were black. Its breath rattled with hunger.

A whisper called to it.

Sovereign

Flame

Rebirth

It shivered.

It had found a scent. A pulse. A memory long forgotten but not erased. A flame that refused to die.

It opened its mouth, revealing too many teeth.

"Azuran returns," it crooned. "Then we hunt again."

And the shadows swallowed it whole.

Back at Campus – End of Lecture

Kael didn't remember a single word the professor said.

His brain was static. Every breath he took felt heavier. Selene hadn't said another word, just gave him a nod as she left, like a message had been delivered and the rest was up to him.

He stepped outside, blinking at the cold sunlight.

The air shifted.

The smell of ash filled his lungs. Not cigarette smoke. Not fire.

Ash. Burnt soul.

Kael turned and something lunged at him from the alley.

He saw fangs. Black eyes. A twisting, wrong aura.

The thing reached for him and Kael moved.

Not with thought.

With instinct.

His foot pivoted, body flowing like water as he sidestepped the strike. One hand flared out and blue flame erupted from his palm, catching the creature full in the chest.

It screamed, shrill and breaking, as the fire devoured it from within.

No ashes. No remains.

Just heat and silence.

Kael stood there, trembling, hand still smoking.

From across the street, atop a low roof, Selene crouched, crossbow in hand, unreadable expression on her face.

She whispered, "You just killed a shadeborn with a flicker. No glyph. No charm. No prep."

Then, smiling just a little:

"Oh, you're going to be fun."