The first ray of sunlight had barely touched the horizon when Arien Varoth arrived at Mahran. From afar, the village seemed wrapped in a dark mist—not an ordinary fog, but a thin, almost translucent smoke that lingered in the air even without flames. The silence was thick, as if even the wind had been banished from that place.
Crossing the stone gate, Arien stopped. The scene before him hit like a punch. The houses, once painted in ochre and cedar wood tones, had been reduced to rubble. Everything was covered by a layer of cold ash that did not burn, but seemed to hold an ancient, silent heat. Nothing moved. No birds, no human sounds. Only the muffled pulse of something that had passed through and taken everything with it.
A jolt of memory struck him hard. The sharp laughter of his sister, Líara, picking flowers in the yard, echoed in his mind. Without thinking, he knelt before the remains of what had once been his house and rummaged through the debris. He found something: a small, bent, cracked bronze toy car. It had been Líara's favorite toy since she was small and still stumbled as she walked.
His fingers brushed the cold, deformed metal. A pang shot through his chest. It was more than just an object. It was proof that everything had ended.
For a few seconds, Arien stood still, feeling the weight of that broken toy—not just in his hands, but in every part of his body, as if time itself had stopped there. The silence of the ruined house made every memory pulse more intensely, as if the walls demanded remembrance.
He closed his eyes and let his fingers rest on the toy, as if he could hear, once more, the muffled sound of wheels turning over the stone floor, his sister's joyful squeals as she ran around the house, the promise of endless afternoons. The smell of fresh bread came from a distant memory, and for a moment, Arien felt that if he only closed his eyes, he could return to a time when the world felt safe. But soon reality weighed on him: all that remained were fragments, and home had become a museum of absences.
He stood and began to walk through the ruined village. With each step, a different memory struck him:
Arien's eyes moved from ruin to ruin. Sometimes they fixed on the sky, hoping for a bird or even a cloud; other times, he searched for small details among the stones, faint footprints, ribbons, any trace of life. The cold wind cut his face, bringing from afar a metallic echo that might have been a door swinging, or just his mind wishing to hear something familiar. The absence of noise was so aggressive that every snapping branch sounded like a threat.
As he walked, every corner of the village threw a different memory back at him, as if the place itself didn't want to let him forget. All it took was a glance at a step, a tree, or a broken wall for scenes from the past to emerge, vivid and clear—so close that for a moment he almost believed he could touch them:
Memory 1:
— "Arien, hold tight!" — his father's firm, protective voice when he almost fell from the old fig tree branch.
Memory 2:
— "Promise you'll come back quickly?" — his mother, eyes brimming with tears, as she watched him leave for the market at dawn.
Memory 3:
— "No matter what happens, remember our oath." — Líara's smile before she hugged him too tightly.
Now all of that was empty. The memories remained, but there was no one left to share them. No bodies. No broken weapons. Only deep footprints leading to the village's edge. As if whoever was there had simply disappeared… consumed by a fire without fire.
When he passed by what was left of the orchard, the trees shrunken by heat and neglect, Arien crouched to pick up a dried fruit from the ground. He held it for long minutes, remembering the mornings when he helped his mother harvest, his small hands reaching for the highest branches, gentle conversations interrupted by laughter. He dropped the fruit to the ground with regret, feeling a wave of guilt for all he hadn't said, all he hadn't done before the tragedy.
Among the ruins of the old well, something caught his attention: a black stone, smooth as marble, but alive. It pulsed with a weak rhythm, almost like a heart. Arien remembered the words of Khron, the hermit on the hill:
Khron:
— "The Static Flame does not burn, Arien. It consumes what is alive. All it leaves behind is emptiness. Whoever controls this fire carries the power to steal the soul of a world."
He picked up the stone. A shiver ran down his spine. The fragment seemed far too heavy for its size. He placed it in a small leather pouch at his belt.
That was when he heard it. A barely audible sound. The tinkling of a small metal bell. His heart raced. He spun around, eyes searching the ruins.
Arien:
— "Líara...?"
But there was nothing. Only the memory of his sister running in her light dress, the little bell pinned to her sleeve.
He fell to his knees, eyes burning. For a moment, he felt hope. But it faded, just like the sound. He stayed there, motionless, feeling the silence spread like a wave through the ruined village—a silence so deep that even the ruins seemed to guard a secret.
When he finally managed to get up, he walked slowly, guided by an emptiness that hurt more than any wound. Each step seemed to echo in the dust, each shadow seemed to watch him.
Ahead, among what was left of the old Varoth tavern, there were dark stains on the ground. Arien approached. Ashes and something else… dried blood mixed with dust. A smell of iron and burnt magic hung in the air. This was not the work of ordinary war. It was the trace of something arcane, forbidden. Something from Kael'Zyth.
He clenched his fists. The name of the cursed land burned in his mind.
Arien:
— "Kael'Zyth… the torch of the desert… the fire that does not shine…"
The blood in his veins seemed to boil. He remembered Líara's last look. The words spoken in a thin voice.
Líara (memory):
— "Promise me, Arien... Promise you'll find out why..."
Arien:
— "I'll find who did this. Every step will be for you. Every breath, a living promise. I don't want only vengeance... I want to understand this fire that does not burn. And discover what flame lives within me."
He stood. The sun was higher now, spreading pale light over the ruins. He slung his old traveler's blade on his back, adjusted his quiver, and pressed the leather pouch to his chest, feeling the fragment's weight.
Before leaving for the desert, Arien found his steps carrying him almost unconsciously to the old Mahran school. The gate groaned softly as he pushed it, and the sound seemed to echo through the ruins—as if, for a moment, he expected to hear children's laughter or the teacher calling for recess.
The hallway was covered in dust and wood splinters. Sunbeams pierced holes in the roof, drawing golden patterns on the floor, lighting up toppled desks, scattered notebook pages, scraps of dreams that the fire hadn't completely consumed. On one of those desks lay a red ribbon—Líara had worn one just like it at the last spring festival.
Arien moved slowly among the desks, listening to the echo of old footsteps, smelling the bittersweet scent of chalk and memories. With each step, it was as if he saw the figures of classmates, heard questions, laughter, little fights over seats. Everything so present and so absent at the same time.
He stopped before the blackboard, now almost white with ash. With his sleeve, he wiped part of the surface, revealing a half-erased inscription:"Promise. Never forget. Come home."It was the teacher's phrase, but now it bore the weight of a broken enchantment.
Arien looked for a piece of chalk among the debris and found one beside a cracked pencil case. With dust-stained fingers, he wrote in strong letters, almost like a spell to not disappear as well:
I remember.
He stayed there, unmoving, for long minutes. The silence in the classroom was so thick it felt tangible. For a moment, he imagined Líara in the first row—wide-eyed, attentive, feet swinging anxiously—and wanted to speak to her, to apologize for not protecting what mattered.
— "You'll remember me, won't you?" — whispered the memory.
— "Always, Líara… Always." — The words came out low, almost hoarse, but it was a promise, like those made at the beginning of life.
He took one last round of the room, lightly touching the back of each desk.
On an inexplicable impulse, he knelt before the first desk, where he once learned to spell his own name. He rested his forehead on the wood and let his tears fall silently, as if there, in the scent of chalk and wood, he found permission to feel everything he'd been holding back since seeing Mahran destroyed. He didn't weep just for the dead, but for time itself—for lost childhood, for unanswered questions, for dreams burned before they could ripen. He found among the ashes a blue handkerchief with an old classmate's initials and put it in his pocket like a talisman. He walked through the yard, where a broken swing still hung from a charred rope, and there, cast by the light, he saw the shadow of his own childhood.
When he left, he stopped at the doorway, looking into the darkened school—trying to forever imprint the scent of wood, the taste of dust, the imagined sound of Líara's bells mingled with the creaking desks.
The wind kicked up dust and ashes, bringing the chill of autumn mornings, and Arien felt smaller before all he had lost, but more whole before what he had promised to carry.
Leaving the school and crossing the devastated village, Arien carried little in his pockets, but all the weight of what was his—memories, promises, longing.
The way to the exit was slow, marked by dragging steps and teary eyes. Arien passed the old market, where the voices of merchants and children still seemed to whisper among the ruins. He stopped before the central well, touched the edge worn by water, and thought of all the stories told there, all the secrets exchanged under the full moon, the legends of gods and spirits that now felt as distant as hope itself.
He turned one last time. Through the broken window, he saw the morning light touching the blackboard and the words written there gleamed beneath the dust:
I remember.
And then he left, guided only by what he could never forget.