The wind carried the scent of ash, even in a forgotten place like Willow's End. Elias Woodmere knelt by the frozen stream, staring at his reflection in the cracked ice. Gray eyes, dull as the overcast sky, gazed back. His tangled black hair clung to his forehead, damp from the morning frost. A face that screamed *nothing*. No fire, no spark, no worth. "Talentless," they called him. A boy who couldn't summon even the faintest ember in a world that worshipped flame.
Elias clenched his fists, the cold biting his knuckles. "What's the point?" he muttered, his breath clouding in the air. "No one expects anything from me. Not even me."
He stood, kicking a pebble into the stream. It sank without a ripple, just like his life in this miserable village. Willow's End was a graveyard for dreams, a cluster of crumbling huts on the edge of Etheria's Frostveil Plains. Here, the sacred fire—the lifeblood of the world—barely flickered. The villagers prayed to it, but their hearths were as cold as their hope.
As Elias turned to leave, a sharp pain stabbed through his skull. He stumbled, clutching his head. The world blurred, and a vision swallowed him whole.
A city burned. Towers of crystal and obsidian crumbled into rivers of molten flame. At the center stood a warrior clad in glowing armor, his silhouette wreathed in fire. Blood dripped from his sword as bodies lay scattered around him—friends, foes, it didn't matter. His voice roared, shaking the heavens. "Malik! You'll pay for this! I'll find you, even if it takes a thousand years!"
The warrior's face turned, and Elias saw it—*his* face, but older, sharper, carved with rage and betrayal. Then the vision shattered.
Elias gasped, collapsing to his knees. His heart pounded like a war drum. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the freezing air. "What… was that?" he whispered. His hands trembled, but something else caught his eye—a faint glow. He looked down. A single spark danced in his palm, no bigger than a firefly, flickering with a warmth he'd never known.
It wasn't much. But in a world ruled by fire, it was everything.
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The village square was quieter than usual that evening. The elders had gathered around the central brazier, its flames struggling against the wind. Elias lingered at the edge, his hood pulled low. The spark from earlier still burned in his mind, but he hadn't dared try summoning it again. What if it was a fluke? Or worse, what if someone saw?
"Elias!" a voice called, sharp and mocking. Torin, the blacksmith's son, swaggered toward him, his broad shoulders blocking the firelight. A faint orange glow pulsed in Torin's hand—a Flameborn's mark, proof he could wield the sacred fire. "Still dreaming of being one of us? Or are you just here to sweep the ashes?"
The other boys snickered, their eyes glinting with the cruelty of youth. Elias's jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze on the ground. Words never helped. They only made the bruises worse.
"Leave him alone, Torin," a softer voice cut in. Mira, the baker's daughter, stepped forward, her auburn hair catching the firelight. She wasn't Flameborn either, but her kindness was fiercer than any spark. "He's not hurting anyone."
Torin smirked. "Defending the talentless, Mira? Careful, or people might think you're sweet on him."
Mira's cheeks flushed, but she didn't back down. "Maybe I just don't like bullies."
Elias's chest tightened. He wanted to thank her, to say *something*, but his tongue felt like lead. Before he could, a low rumble shook the square. The brazier's flames flared, then dimmed to a sickly blue. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"The fire…" an elder whispered, his voice trembling. "It's fading."
Elias's eyes widened. The sacred fire never faltered. It was Etheria's heart, the source of all Flameborn power. If it died… No one dared finish the thought.
That night, Elias couldn't sleep. The vision, the spark, the fading fire—it all churned in his mind. He sat on the straw mat in his tiny room, staring at his hands. "Who are you?" he muttered, as if the warrior from his vision could answer. "And why do I feel like I know you?"
He closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth he'd felt by the stream. His breath slowed. A pulse of heat stirred in his chest, faint but real. He held out his hand, and there it was—a spark, brighter this time, hovering like a tiny star. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
A memory flashed, unbidden. A voice, deep and commanding, echoed in his mind. *"The Eternal Flame is more than power, Kaylin. It's sacrifice. It's truth. Lose that, and you lose everything."*
"Kaylin?" Elias whispered. The name felt heavy, like a stone dropped into his soul. He didn't know it, yet it felt… right.
The spark flared, casting shadows on the walls. For the first time in his life, Elias Woodmere didn't feel talentless. He felt dangerous.
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