Far from Riftkeep, across the chasm-riven lowlands and past the Witherwoods, lay the Upper Isle of Elarion—where the highlands met the heavens and flame wrote law into stone.
Elarion sat in the northeastern rise of the Upper Realm, crowned in perpetual gold-light and ancient fire. It was a land of jagged peaks, ember-fed forests, and rivers that glittered with veins of obsidian and crystal. The skies above it were painted in shifting hues—where auroras danced even during daylight, and storms carved flame-shaped glyphs in the clouds.
At its heart stood the Ashenkeep, an ancient fortress built into the belly of the Emberspires. Its spires, made from scorched basalt and sun-tempered glass, twisted high into the smoke-veined sky. The throne within had not been warmed in 20 turns—two decades without a crowned ruler.
The Emberfall Uprising had shattered the Old Royal Line. Since then, only puppet-governors ruled—each one claiming a shard of influence but none bold enough to seize the full crown.
Their authority, however, did not stem from their thrones.
No, they answered to the Riftguard—faceless arbiters who wore mirrored masks and wielded flame-bound oaths. They had no names, no pasts. Only duty. Bound to the will of the Hollow, their purpose was not governance—but containment. It was whispered they had once tried to kill gods—and failed.
They did not meddle often. Unless the unnatural stirred.
Unless magic refused to name itself.
Unless a child like Sylara rose in Riftkeep.
In the cavernous chambers of Council Flame, where the governors bickered behind firelit tables, a visitor stood cloaked in shadow and silence.
"She sees flame," he said. His voice, calm but heavy. "And walks it unburned."
The governors shifted, each cloaked in silks and veils, each trying to mask their fear with arrogance.
Governor Maeralyn of the Hollowmoor, her emerald circlet shimmering beneath the hearthlight, narrowed her eyes. "All children of the Orphaned Flame are taught fire discipline. What makes her more dangerous than the others?"
The watcher stepped forward, removing a slender obsidian scroll from his robes. Upon it, a drawn rune flickered—a twin to the one that had burned beneath Sylara's feet.
"This was not taught. This was awakened."
Gasps rippled. The Rune of Echoed Flame was forbidden—sealed during the sundering. Only soul-linked casters could summon it. And only those marked by forgotten powers.
"Does the Riftguard know?" whispered Governor Thais of Windhaven.
"Not yet. But they will soon, they have already seen her" the watcher replied, his gaze shifting to the brazier. In its dancing flames, a reflection pulsed—an amethyst gaze, unreadable and sharp.
"We must decide: will we guide her, bind her—or break her, before the Riftguard does?"
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Back in Riftkeep, Sylara sat on the sun-warmed edge of the eastern wall, legs drawn to her chest. Below, the training grounds bustled, but she wasn't watching. She traced a rune into the stone beside her—a small one. One she understood.
Kel'tar — the Rune of Shielding. Thin, forked like a tree's limb, with a spiral in its heart. When drawn in air and spoken with intention, it could repel impact. Elian had taught her that.
She knew five others:
Shyren – Flamekindle. A rune shaped like a flickering wave, used to start controlled fire.
Marn – Lightstep. Crescent-shaped, it made movements quieter.
Osir – Breathbind. A ward against poison.
Veran – Embermark. A tracking rune that glowed when someone marked came near.
Kel'tar – the shield.
Each one etched not only into her memory but into her skin—runes that shimmered faintly under her collarbone, wrists, and spine.
But there were more—some that flared in her sleep, unbidden. She didn't know their names yet. Or why her soul ached when they surfaced.
Nyx stirred.
"They watch. They gather. And they fear you."
Sylara tilted her head skyward, wind catching in her sun streaked hair.
She did not fear them.
She only feared losing the fire within.
And what it would cost to keep it burning.
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