Chapter One: Emberborn
The wind in Emberholt was never still. It danced through the forge-choked alleys and high market towers like a restless spirit, tugging at the hoods of scholars and the hems of merchant banners. But today, it brought with it something else—something older. A scent of ash, tinged with memory.
Lyra felt it before she smelled it. A flicker beneath her ribs, like a candle flaring in a sudden draft. She paused mid-step, her satchel slipping from her shoulder as a wave of heat rippled up her spine.
Not again.
She clutched her chest where the warmth pulsed—a silent rhythm, neither painful nor pleasant. Just... persistent.
"Lyra? You alright?"
Joren, her closest friend and reluctant co-conspirator in rooftop stargazing and forbidden library raids, had paused at the edge of the courtyard. He squinted up at her from below the arching roots of the Grand Elm that towered at the center of the academy.
"You felt that?" she asked.
"Felt what? You just zoned out. Looked like you were going to pass out. Again."
She exhaled, brushing a loose strand of copper hair behind her ear. "Nothing. Just warm."
Joren snorted. "Warm? Lyra, it's Frostturn. You're the only person in Emberholt who isn't shivering."
And that was true. Her gloves remained stuffed in her satchel. Her breath didn't fog like everyone else's. Even the snowflakes seemed to hesitate before landing on her.
She tried to smile, play it off, but the pulse returned—sharper this time. Her vision dimmed, and for a heartbeat, the world blinked out.
Then came the vision.
Flame. Endless sky. Wings, vast and burning, cutting through clouds. And a voice—not heard, but felt.
"The flame sleeps no longer."
She staggered back. Joren caught her arm. "That's it. I'm taking you to Master Haleth."
"No!" she snapped, louder than intended. Students turned. A few instructors nearby glanced their way.
Lyra softened her voice. "Sorry. Just... I'm fine. I promise. It's just nerves. The Trials are next week."
He didn't look convinced, but nodded. "Alright. But if you faint during Spellcasting Forms again, I'm not catching you this time."
She forced a laugh and let him steer the conversation elsewhere.
But her heart thundered.
Because it wasn't just a vision. It was a summons.
The Mark of the Heir
That night, Lyra sat alone in the library's restricted archives. Not that she was technically allowed, but she'd picked up a few lockpicking tricks from Joren. And the sigil wards were old—easy to bypass if you knew the sequence.
She ran her fingers over the spine of an ancient tome: Chronicles of the Crucible Flame. Banned reading. Locked behind three doors.
But the symbol on its cover matched the one she'd seen behind her eyelids during the vision.
A Phoenix. Wings spread. Flame pouring not from its mouth—but its heart.
She opened the book.
The first page bore a single sentence in bold, fading script:
When the last ember awakens, so too shall the final truth.
The next pages chronicled the rise of the Phoenix Kael, the Crucible's restoration, and Akhareth's fall. None of it was news—those tales were in every child's history chant.
But then she found a chapter not listed in the table of contents.
"Of the Hidden Prophecy."
Lyra's hands trembled.
Kael, the Flame-Reborn, knew the world would not stay healed. That magic, like fire, hungers. So he bound his essence—not in the sky, nor the stone, but in the soul of one yet unborn. One who would carry both his light and the price of his power.
The Phoenix would rise again—not in glory, but in warning.
Lyra pushed back from the desk, heart pounding.
She was the girl in the vision.
The ember had awakened.
And the world would burn anew.
Beneath the Ash Moon
That same night, across the sea in the crumbled ruins of Cael'Mareth, a hooded figure stood atop a shattered spire. Around him knelt acolytes in soot-stained robes, their chants low and rhythmic.
The figure raised a hand. The flame in his palm curled upward, coiling like a serpent.
"The Cindersong has waited," he whispered, eyes glowing crimson. "The Phoenix line stirs again. We shall guide it—into flame eternal."
He cast the fire into the sky.
It rose until it vanished among the stars, leaving behind only a whisper on the wind:
*"She is born."
And so, the hunt began.