By Maeryn
The forest didn't speak that morning.
It watched.
I felt it in the way the mist clung tighter to my boots, in the silence that settled over the trees like a held breath. Even the crows didn't call. Not one leaf dared to fall.
I moved quickly, not because I was afraid, but because I couldn't stand still. My blood had been humming since dawn, hot and erratic like fire under glass. The warmth in my chest hadn't faded—not even after the tea, not even after sleep. If you could call what I did sleep.
Thalen didn't say anything as I left again. He stood on the porch, sharpening the same knife with the same rhythm, but his eyes followed me like they always did. I didn't look back.
I took the east path this time, toward the river that split Velharis in two. I didn't have a reason. I just needed space, and that part of the forest always felt older. Less judgmental.
I walked until I could hear the water, steady and deep. It was the only sound left in the world. I crouched at the edge of the riverbank and dipped my fingers into the current. Cold. It grounded me, but just barely. The heat inside me didn't care.
I didn't know what I was looking for. Not really. Clarity, maybe. Or proof that I wasn't losing my mind. But all I saw was reflection—the same girl with too many secrets and a pulse that burned instead of beat.
Something snapped behind me.
I didn't flinch. I just stood slowly, hand already on the knife hidden at my waist. The trees didn't move. No wind. No animals. Just that silence, thicker now. Curious.
—I know you're there.
The words left my mouth like smoke.
No response. But something shifted.
A flicker of movement—low to the ground, fast. I turned, tracking it without stepping away from the water. My heart didn't race. It slowed.
A shape formed between two gnarled roots. It wasn't big. It didn't need to be.
Eyes—too many of them—watched me from a body that didn't quite have a form. Ash and bone, mist and memory. A Hollowborn.
Of course.
I didn't run. Hollowborns don't chase. They stalk. Wait. Feed on magic, on things they think are alive. I didn't know why this one had come so close to the river. They never liked moving water.
It inched forward. No footsteps. Just drift.
I tightened my grip on the blade, but didn't lift it yet.
—I'm not your prey.
It tilted its head. No mouth, but I swore I felt it grin. They don't speak—not with words—but I heard it all the same.
You don't know what you are.
And that was enough.
The flame answered me before I even called it.
A sharp burst of heat surged through my veins, out through my fingertips, down into the earth. The river hissed where the heat touched it, steam curling around my ankles.
The Hollowborn hesitated.
It felt the fire now. My fire.
Good.
I stepped toward it, blade drawn, fingers still warm from the inside out.
—I said, I'm not your prey.
The moment cracked.
The creature lunged—not at me, but around me, trying to move toward the trees. Fast. Smart. But I was faster.
I pivoted, flame trailing behind me like a ribbon. I didn't think—I let it move through me. The fire didn't explode; it bent. Coiled. A whip of flame lashed out from my hand, wrapping around the Hollowborn's torso before it could vanish.
It screamed—silent, but raw. It twisted in the fire, body flickering like shadow breaking apart. And then it was gone. Not dead. Dispersed.
I stood there, chest rising and falling, breath heavy. Not from fear. From fury.
It hadn't come for me because I was weak.
It had come because I was waking up.
That made me angry. Not scared. Angry.
The forest stayed quiet after that. Not in fear—almost in approval. Like it had been waiting to see what I'd do. Like it understood.
I turned back to the river, rinsed my hands. The heat pulsed under my skin like it was pleased with me.
I sat down on the nearest flat stone and tried to breathe. Really breathe.
I hadn't called the fire. Not consciously. It had answered anyway.
And that terrified me more than the Hollowborn ever could.
I stayed by the river until the sun was well above the trees, casting that pale golden light that never quite reached the ground in Velharis. My cloak dried slowly. My hands did not stop shaking. Not from fear—just... from something else. The flame was still awake inside me, even if I tried to pretend otherwise.
It didn't want to go back to sleep.
I traced small circles in the dirt with the edge of my boot, trying to ignore the way the ash from the Hollowborn still lingered in the air, too faint to see, but not to feel. It had touched something ancient when it looked at me—something even I hadn't dared name yet.
Not until Thalen tells me what he knows.
Not until I decide if I'm ready for it.
I stood and started walking back.
The forest felt less heavy now. Not lighter, just... less hostile. As if it had decided I was allowed to keep moving. Velharis has never been gentle, but it respects power when it sees it. Not arrogance. Not brute strength. But power that's earned. Chosen.
And something in me was finally choosing.
Thalen was waiting when I got back. Still outside, arms crossed, firewood stacked neatly beside him. He didn't speak when he saw me—just studied me for a long, quiet second.
—You used it.
Not a question.
I nodded.
—Hollowborn. Near the river.
His jaw tensed, just a little. Then he stepped aside to let me pass.
Inside, the air smelled like rosemary and smoke. There was soup warming on the stove, and a faint shimmer of warding dust across the windowsills. He'd been busy.
I peeled off my cloak and hung it, then sat without asking. Thalen followed.
—I didn't summon it —I said finally. —The fire. It came on its own.
—You're closer to the threshold now. The spark knows.
—I didn't mean to use it. I just didn't want to die.
Thalen gave a short, tired laugh. Not unkind.
—You won't die from a Hollowborn. Not anymore.
I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes.
—You say that like it's supposed to be comforting.
—It is. Trust me, there are worse things than being hunted.
—Name one.
—Being hunted and not knowing why.
Fair.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, eyes on the fire. It cracked once—sharp and sudden. I didn't flinch. Neither did he.
—So? —I asked.
—So what?
—You going to keep pretending you don't know what's happening to me? Or are we finally done with half-truths?
Silence stretched.
He didn't avoid my gaze this time. His eyes were dark, steady.
—There's a reason I kept things from you.
—Yeah, to keep me safe. I've heard the song.
—No. To keep them safe from you.
That was new.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Thalen stood and crossed to the chest beneath the stairs—the same one he'd pulled the book from yesterday. This time, he unlocked the bottom drawer. I hadn't even noticed it had a second compartment.
He lifted out a rolled piece of dark cloth, bound in silver string. He held it for a second too long before setting it gently on the table between us.
—What is it?
—Proof.
Of what, he didn't say. He let me be the one to untie it.
Inside was a piece of armor—just one. A bracer, blackened and scorched, lined with golden runes that pulsed faintly as my fingers brushed them. They looked like the markings from the glade. But older. Deeper.
I looked up.
Thalen's voice was low when he spoke.
—Your mother wore that the day she died.
The world shifted.
I stared down at the metal, throat tight.
—I don't remember her.
—I know.
He sat again, across from me now.
—She was a flamekeeper of the old bloodlines. Born in Thareon, trained in Velharis. She should never have crossed into Aurealis, but she did—for you. To hide you.
I swallowed hard.
—Why?
—Because she knew what you'd become. What you carried.
My hand hovered over the bracer.
—What do I carry?
Thalen didn't blink.
—A fragment of the First Flame.
I didn't breathe.
—I thought that was a myth.
—Most powerful things are—until they burn you.
A fragment of the First Flame.
The words didn't echo. They landed. Final. Sharp. Like they'd been waiting to be said out loud for years.
I looked down at the bracer again, the runes still faintly pulsing like they were breathing. Like they recognized me.
—So I'm some kind of... what? Vessel?
Thalen shook his head slowly.
—You're not a vessel. You're the next link in a chain that was broken long ago.
—That's not an answer.
—I'm giving you pieces, Maeryn. If I gave you the whole thing at once, it'd rip you apart.
I clenched my jaw.
—Try me.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
—There were once thirteen lines of Flamekeepers. Thirteen families, bound by fire older than this realm. They weren't royalty. They were guardians—chosen not by birth, but by the flame itself.
—So they weren't bloodlines.
—Not in the beginning. But power likes roots. Eventually, those chosen started passing their gifts to children, locking it into bone and breath. You come from one of those lines. The last one.
—And the others?
—Burned. Hunted. Or turned into something else.
That chilled me more than it should have.
—What about the First Flame?
—It was never meant to be controlled. It chose fragments of itself to bond with people who could carry it without being consumed. That bracer? It's not a weapon. It's a seal. It was forged to hold the flame back. Not unleash it.
—And mine broke.
—No. Yours never existed.
That made my stomach twist.
—Why?
—Because your mother knew you'd need the full strength of it.
I stood, pacing now, too much fire in my limbs to sit still. The air inside the cottage felt too small.
—So I'm walking around with an unsealed fragment of something ancient and angry inside me. Great.
—It's not angry.
I turned.
—Then what is it?
Thalen looked older than I'd ever seen him.
—Lonely.
The word hit me sideways. I didn't respond. Couldn't.
He stood slowly, crossed the room, and placed a hand on the bracer.
—The Hollowborn didn't come for you by accident. The seal around this forest is weakening. Something beyond the Broken Border is stirring. It smells power. Old power.
—So I'm a beacon now.
—No. You're a call to war.
Silence fell again, this time heavier. Realer.
I crossed my arms over my chest, grounding myself in the weight of that truth.
—And what do I do? Light a torch and wait?
—You train. You learn. And when the time comes, you burn.
His voice didn't shake. Mine almost did.
—I don't know how to control it yet.
—You will.
I looked at him.
—How can you be so sure?
Thalen's gaze didn't waver.
—Because I've seen what happens when you don't.
I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't want to know. Not yet.
I sat again, quieter this time.
—Why me?
—Because the flame chose you.
—That's not enough.
—It never is. That's why it also left you with a choice.
I exhaled slowly, fingers curling into fists.
—And if I walk away?
He didn't blink.
—Then it finds someone else. And the world burns without you.
Outside, the wind shifted. The leaves whispered. I could feel the eyes of the forest again—watching. Waiting.
I reached for the bracer.
It was warm.
Not scalding. Not demanding. Just... steady.
Like it had been waiting for me to stop running.
I closed my hand around it and stood.
Thalen watched me without a word as I fastened it to my arm. The metal adjusted to my skin like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.
—I'm not ready —I said.
—No one ever is.
—Good.
I turned toward the door.
—Then let's begin.
The training didn't start with fire.
It started with stillness.
Which, if you've met me, is worse.
Thalen took me to a clearing just past the southern ridge. The trees there grew wide and high, the kind of old you can't fake. The air was colder, sharper. The wind knew how to whisper names here. It had whispered mine once, when I was small.
—Sit.
I looked at him.
—I can't burn anything sitting down.
—Exactly.
I gave him a look, but sat anyway, cross-legged on a patch of moss. The bracer on my arm pulsed softly, like it wanted more.
He sat across from me, mirroring my posture.
—Close your eyes.
—Why?
—Because you're not listening.
—I am listening.
—Not with your ears.
I rolled my eyes but obeyed. Slowly.
At first, I heard everything—the crunch of leaves, the distant groan of a branch in the wind, a bird overhead. My thoughts raced. What if another Hollowborn came? What if the flame got out again? What if I wasn't made for this?
Then the wind shifted.
And the sound of the forest fell into rhythm.
Branches creaked like breathing. The ground murmured. The heat inside my chest slowed. Not cooled, just... aligned.
I opened my eyes.
Thalen was watching me, that unreadable look on his face again.
—Better.
—What was that?
—The forest accepting you.
—It took long enough.
He smirked.
—You were always too loud.
I arched a brow.
—I was six.
—And louder than most soldiers I've trained.
That caught my attention.
—I thought you were just a guardian. A quiet forest man with too many knives and not enough hobbies.
Thalen chuckled under his breath.
—I was a soldier long before I was your guardian.
—Where?
He looked past me, into the trees. His voice dropped into memory.
—Thareon. During the River Siege. I was young. Stupid. Thought honor meant standing still while the world burned around you. Learned fast that it doesn't.
I leaned forward.
—You fought in the siege?
He nodded.
—I was in the eastern flank. We held the line for nine days. Lost everyone on the tenth.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Old.
—Why did you stay? —I asked.
—Because a girl with flame in her chest needed someone who knew what it looked like when the world tried to kill her.
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't.
We sat there for a while longer. Just breathing. Just existing.
Then, without warning, he stood and tossed a small rock at my chest.
—Catch.
I did—barely.
—What the hell?
—You were getting comfortable. Time to move.
—With rocks?
He grinned.
—With instincts.
He drew a thin, curved stick from the satchel on his back and threw another rock—this one faster.
I caught it again, but stumbled slightly.
—Training starts now?
—Training started the moment you touched the flame. This is just me trying to make sure you don't die next week.
Fair.
We spent the next hour doing drills I didn't fully understand. Movement-based. Reflex-based. Nothing flashy. No fire. Just awareness. Control. Flow.
I hated it. And I loved it.
Because for once, I wasn't guessing what I was anymore.
I was becoming it.
By nightfall, I couldn't feel my arms.
I collapsed onto the grass beside the fire Thalen had lit without even looking, like it was second nature. It probably was. He sat across from me, quietly stirring something in a blackened pot that smelled vaguely edible and entirely herbal.
—You're out of shape —he said, not looking up.
—I've been surviving, not training.
—Same thing. Just slower.
I threw a pebble at him. He caught it without blinking.
—Show-off.
—You're just bitter I still have both arms functioning.
I let out a sound that might have been a laugh if I wasn't so sore. The fire crackled, filling the quiet between us. For a moment, it felt like I wasn't carrying the weight of something ancient. Just myself. Just the present.
Thalen handed me a bowl of whatever it was he made. It was hot, thick, and slightly green.
—Don't ask what's in it —he warned.
—I wasn't going to. I've learned.
We ate in silence. Comfortable. Companionable. Then I asked the question that had been sitting on my tongue since the bracer.
—What was she like?
Thalen didn't pretend not to understand. He set his bowl down, eyes on the flames.
—Your mother was fire without heat. You didn't feel her burn until it was too late.
—I don't remember her face.
—I do.
He looked at me then.
—Same eyes. Same temper. But she was quieter with it. Calculated. People mistook that for weakness.
—And paid for it?
He nodded.
—Every time.
I stirred my soup slowly.
—Did she know she was going to die?
—I think she always knew. Not when. But how.
That made my chest ache in a way I didn't expect.
—She wanted to stay. I could see it. But she also knew staying meant giving you up to the wrong hands. She chose the harder way.
—And you? Why did you stay?
—Because she asked me to.
Simple as that.
I didn't press further. I didn't need to.
The flames danced between us, the smoke rising like ghosts. I traced a line in the dirt with my finger, absently drawing a symbol from the book Thalen had given me. I didn't know what it meant. Not yet.
The wind shifted. The symbol glowed faintly—just for a second—then faded.
I looked up.
—Did you see that?
Thalen's brow furrowed.
—Draw it again.
I did. This time slower. More deliberate.
The moment my finger completed the circle, the fire bent toward me—just slightly. Just enough.
—I didn't mean to—
—Don't apologize. That was a call sign.
—A what?
—Ancient flamekeeper trick. A signal for the flame to listen instead of act.
—Why would I know that?
—Because it's in your bones.
I stared at the shape, still visible in the dirt, a faint warmth radiating from it.
—How many of these are there?
—Dozens. Some lost. Some sealed. You'll learn them.
—I don't want to just learn them. I want to understand them.
—Then start by listening.
To the flame?
To myself?
To her?
Maybe all of it.
---
The test wasn't planned.
Thalen never said, Today you'll face a memory that doesn't belong to you. He didn't warn me that the fire would answer with more than heat. He just handed me a stone.
Black. Smooth. Cold.
—I found this the day I took you from the ruins —he said. —Buried in the ash. Still warm, even after everything had gone cold.
I turned it over in my hand. The surface shimmered faintly—like it remembered the fire even if I didn't.
—What is it?
—A memory anchor.
—Yours?
—Hers.
I stared at it.
—You want me to touch a memory that belonged to my mother?
—I want you to understand what you are.
I didn't speak. I closed my fingers around the stone and held on.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the ground disappeared.
There was no sound. No smell. No breath.
Only fire.
Not heat—memory in the shape of flame. A hall of burning pillars. Screams in the distance. A voice crying out a name I couldn't understand. And a flash—her face. My mother's face. Red hair flying. Eyes full of something worse than fear.
Resolve.
She was holding something. Wrapped in cloth.
A baby.
Me.
She ran through a crumbling corridor, the walls scorched. A door slammed open ahead. Light poured through—and a figure waited.
Thalen. Younger. Unscarred. His eyes wide.
She reached him. Shoved the bundle into his arms.
"Run. Don't look back."
Then the fire surged. The memory burned away.
I gasped, dropped the stone, nearly fell.
Thalen caught me.
I looked up, vision blurred, lungs aching.
—She gave me up to save me.
—Yes.
—And you?
—I did look back.
That broke something in me.
—I saw her die —he whispered. —And I've lived with it every day since.
I couldn't speak. The heat in my chest wasn't fire anymore. It was grief. Sharp. Ancient.
—Why now? Why show me this?
—Because you need to know the truth before you decide who you want to become.
I wiped my face, though I hadn't realized I'd started crying.
—I don't even know who I am.
Thalen reached into his satchel, pulled out a folded scrap of parchment.
—You were named long before the world knew you existed. Before the flame chose you.
He handed it to me.
My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
One word. Written in delicate, steady ink.
"Seranyth."
—That was her name for you —he said. —Before we buried it to protect you.
The word pulsed in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Seranyth.
I didn't speak it out loud. I let it settle inside me.
A truth I hadn't known I'd been missing.
Thalen stood.
—Keep the name, or don't. It's yours. But don't forget where it came from.
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
As he walked back toward the cottage, I stayed by the fire, staring at the stone in the dirt.
The flame inside me didn't roar.
It waited. Ready.
I didn't sleep that night.
Not from fear. Not from visions.
I just didn't want to.
I sat outside long after Thalen went in, the fire a quiet pulse beside me, the memory stone nestled in the dirt like a bone that hadn't finished telling its story.
My mind kept turning over the name.
Seranyth.
It didn't feel like a lie. It didn't feel like a stranger. It felt like something buried under years of silence, finally gasping for air.
I wasn't going to change who I was. I wouldn't start introducing myself with a name I hadn't earned. But I couldn't ignore it either.
Maybe that's what becoming meant—not choosing one version of yourself, but finally holding both.
I stared up at the sky. The stars in Velharis always looked like they were watching. Not twinkling. Waiting.
The flame inside me hadn't slept either. It moved differently now—less chaotic, more aware. It no longer clawed to be released. It listened. It watched with me.
The trees rustled in the distance. Not a threat. Just breath.
And then I felt it.
A shift in the air. Small. Barely there.
But real.
I stood slowly, scanning the treeline.
Something had moved.
Not animal. Not wind.
Something... watching back.
I stepped toward the edge of the clearing. The fire behind me flickered higher without me touching it, casting a long shadow at my feet.
I didn't speak. I just waited.
A branch creaked.
Then silence.
Then, a whisper.
It wasn't in any language I knew. It wasn't sound, even. Just... presence. A brush against my spine. An awareness brushing against mine.
Whatever it was, it didn't come closer.
It just knew I was awake now.
And it approved.
I stood there a long time. Watching nothing. Feeling everything.
And I didn't flinch.
By the time the first light cracked through the trees, I was still outside. Still standing.
Thalen stepped out onto the porch, rubbed his hands together like he hadn't just woken up from decades of secrets.
—Didn't sleep?
—Didn't want to.
He eyed me for a second, then nodded.
—I left something for you.
I turned.
On the table outside the door: a wrapped bundle.
I crossed over, peeled back the cloth.
Inside was a training blade—not steel, but dark bronze, weighted like the real thing. Engraved lightly at the hilt with runes I couldn't read yet. A leather strap beside it. A flamekeeper's armband.
—This doesn't mean I'm ready —I said.
—I know.
—I'm still angry.
—I hope so.
—I'm still full of questions.
—That's good.
—I might still walk away.
—You won't.
I looked at him, dead in the eye.
—Why not?
His answer was quiet, steady.
—Because the flame called your name. And you answered.
I looked down at the blade in my hand.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't magical. It didn't glow or hum or sing.
But it felt right.
Like weight I could carry.
Like something real in a world full of shadows.
I fastened the strap around my wrist, slid the blade into the loop at my side.
And for the first time since the fire in my chest had stirred, I felt still.
Not calm.
Not safe.
But ready.
Velharis didn't speak.
It didn't need to.
The forest knew.
The flame knew.
And soon, the world would, too.