The sky bled a dying crimson as the sun dipped behind the snow-crusted cliffs of Dunharrow. Smoke from the forges curled through the narrow streets, tinged with iron and soot. The village buzzed with the end-of-day bustle, but in the shadow of the Empire's ever-watchful gaze, the air had turned brittle with fear.
Arin Valdis tightened her leather apron, breath fogging in the cold air as she hammered the final blade of the day. Each strike rang out like a heartbeat—sharp, relentless. The sword was nothing fancy, just a farming tool reforged into something that might pass for defense. Still, she took pride in her work. She had to. In Dunharrow, pride was one of the few things the Empire hadn't stripped away.
She was just about to quench the blade when she heard it—a cry. Not a sharp scream of pain or anger, but something brittle and frightened. It sliced through the hum of voices and clanging metal. Arin's hammer paused midair.
She stepped out of the forge, squinting into the orange-tinted dusk. A small crowd had gathered near the village well. At the center, a boy knelt on the cobblestones, clutching something wrapped in torn cloth.
"What now?" Arin muttered, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
As she approached, the air shifted. Warmth—unexpected and unnatural—prickled across her skin. She pushed through the ring of villagers, her boots crunching on frostbitten gravel, and stopped short.
The object in the boy's hands pulsed faintly through the cloth, a dim ember-like glow radiating with an eerie rhythm. Arin's stomach twisted. Whatever it was, it called to something inside her—something she didn't understand.
"Step away!" a voice barked.
A tall man strode through the crowd, cloaked in the Empire's steel-and-black. A patrol captain. His boots gleamed, his face hard as flint.
The boy shrank under his gaze, trembling.
"Where did you get that?" the captain demanded.
The child looked up, eyes wide, but said nothing. Then—barely a flicker—his gaze shifted to Arin. Just for a second. But it was enough.
The glowing stone pulsed brighter. Arin's breath hitched as a strange heat ignited in her chest, crawling up her arms like fire dancing beneath her skin.
The captain noticed. "You," he said sharply. "Step forward."
"I—I didn't—" Her voice faltered. Her hands itched. Her palms tingled with warmth, and when she looked down, flames licked the tips of her fingers.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
"She's glowing!"
"Curse-blood!"
"No, no, this can't be—" Arin backed away, panic clutching her throat.
The captain drew his blade, pointing it at her chest. "You're one of them. A fireborne. Heretic filth."
The fire flared around her hands, uncontrollable now. The glowing stone fell from the boy's grasp and hit the ground with a dull thunk. The moment it did, the flames around Arin surged, heat warping the air.
She ran.
Screams erupted behind her as villagers scattered. The captain roared an order, but no one followed. The path ahead twisted through dark woods at the village's edge, and she didn't stop to think. She just ran, smoke trailing behind her like a second shadow.
Branches whipped her arms and face. Leaves crunched beneath her boots. Her breath came in ragged gasps, heat still burning inside her chest.
Finally, she collapsed beside a stream, trembling. The cold water hissed as she plunged her hands in. Blisters marred her skin, but the pain was dull compared to the storm inside her.
"What am I?" she whispered.
The forest around her was silent, save for the trickle of water and the rustle of wind.
Then, a voice broke the stillness.
"The ember has awakened."
Arin scrambled to her feet, eyes darting.
An old woman stepped into the clearing, her form barely distinguishable from the moss-covered trees. She wore a cloak made of bark and vines, her hair silver as moonlight.
"Who are you?" Arin demanded.
The woman didn't answer right away. She knelt beside the stream, touching the water where Arin had bled fire. "It begins again," she murmured.
"I didn't do anything," Arin said. "It just—happened."
The woman finally looked up. Her eyes burned like coal—deep, ancient, knowing. "It was never meant to be hidden. Not from you."
Arin took a step back. "You're mad."
"No," the woman said gently. "I am old. And I remember. The flame chooses. And it has chosen you, Ember Queen."
A cold knot formed in Arin's gut. "I'm not a queen."
"You were born of fire, child. You bear the mark."
"I'm a blacksmith's apprentice!"
The woman smiled, a sad curve of her lips. "And yet your blood sings with the same flame that once brought down an empire. You think that is coincidence?"
Arin shook her head. "This is a mistake. It has to be."
The woman rose slowly. "The curse you carry is not a burden. It is a calling. The world may call you cursed—but it fears you because it remembers what you are."
A silence settled between them, broken only by the soft wind.
"Come," the woman said. "There is much to remember."
She turned and vanished into the trees, leaving only the faint shimmer of fireflies in her wake.
Arin stood alone, heart pounding, skin still warm from the fire that had not yet left her.
Behind her, the ember stone pulsed softly on the forest floor—waiting.
Remembers
Arin followed the old woman deeper into the forest, her footsteps uncertain, heart still pounding from the firestorm she'd barely escaped. Twisted roots clawed at her boots, and branches tugged at her arms, but the woman moved with eerie grace, as if the forest bent to let her pass.
The trees grew taller here—older. Their trunks were thick with moss, and the air hung heavy with silence. No birds. No insects. Just the crunch of leaves underfoot and the soft hum of something ancient pulsing through the earth.
"How do you know me?" Arin asked, breathless. "How do you know what I am?"
The woman paused, half-turning. "You don't yet understand the world you were born into. But it remembers you."
"I'm not anyone important," Arin said quickly. "I didn't ask for this. I just—touched that stone, and—"
"And the flame answered," the woman interrupted, her voice soft but firm. "It was never asleep, only waiting."
They reached a clearing where moonlight filtered down in silver shafts. At its center stood a broken stone altar, covered in ivy. Strange symbols were carved into its surface—runes Arin couldn't read, but that made her bones hum with something like recognition.
The woman gestured to it. "This is what remains of the Temple of Embers. Long ago, your ancestors stood where you now stand."
Arin stepped closer, reluctant. "You said… Ember Queen."
"Yes," the woman said. "And not for the sake of legend. You are her heir. The last of the flameborn line."
Arin shook her head. "There's no royal blood in me. My mother died when I was two. My father was a blacksmith."
"Your mother was more than she let on. Her flame was nearly extinguished by the time she fled. But she lived long enough to pass it to you."
A chill ran down Arin's spine. Her mother—always a distant shadow in memory—had spoken little in the stories others told. She had lived quietly, worked hard, died young. There had been no mention of magic.
"I don't want this," Arin said, her voice breaking. "I didn't ask for fire in my veins. I don't want to be hunted."
The old woman's gaze softened. "Most power is not asked for. But those who inherit it must decide how to wield it. Run, and it will consume you. Embrace it, and you might control it."
Might.
The word echoed in Arin's skull like a threat.
She sank to her knees before the altar, exhaustion weighing on her. "I could've killed someone back there. I didn't even mean to set anything on fire."
"The flame reacts to emotion—especially fear. It's alive, in a way. But it is also bound to you. The more you understand it, the less dangerous it becomes."
Arin looked up at her. "And you? What are you?"
The woman's smile was faint. "A Remnant. One of the few who remember what came before the Empire purged the old bloodlines. I serve the flame—not as a wielder, but as a keeper of its stories."
She held out a hand. In her palm lay a ring—blackened, shaped like twisting fire.
"This belonged to your mother," she said. "It will protect you."
Arin hesitated, then reached out. The moment her fingers brushed the ring, warmth bloomed across her palm, not painful but familiar. Like touching sunlight through glass.
The woman nodded. "Now we begin."
"Begin what?"
"Your awakening."
The Remnant moved to the edge of the clearing and raised her hand. A gust of wind swept through the trees, stirring the underbrush. A circle of flame sparked around the altar—not wild, but contained. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
Arin tensed. "You said you weren't a wielder."
"I'm not," the woman said. "But I can guide you. Let the flame speak."
The ring burned hot on Arin's finger. Her breath quickened. The fire around the altar flickered, as if sensing her fear.
"Step into the circle," the woman said.
Arin's legs refused at first, but then she thought of the captain's sword, the way her skin had blistered with power she couldn't control. If she didn't do this, next time, someone would die.
She stepped forward.
The moment she entered the ring, her vision blurred. The forest fell away, and she stood in a field of ash. Blackened trees jutted like bones from the earth. In the distance, a castle burned—flames rising to the heavens.
A woman stood atop its tower, cloaked in gold and fire. Her face was familiar—Arin's face, only older. Harder. A crown of flame circled her head.
"You are the end," the woman said. "And the beginning."
Arin opened her mouth to speak, but her voice caught. Her chest ached. The vision shimmered—and shattered.
She was back in the clearing, gasping.
"What… what was that?"
"A memory," the Remnant said. "Not yours alone. The flame holds the past of all who carried it. You saw her—the last Ember Queen. Your ancestor. The one who was betrayed."
Arin's hands shook. "She looked like me."
"She was you. Or rather, a mirror of what you might become."
Arin turned away, pressing her fingers to her temples. "This is too much."
"Then rest," the woman said. "But know this—your awakening cannot be undone. The Empire will not stop. The Shadow Court watches. And soon, they will send more than a patrol."
Arin sat at the edge of the altar, her eyes fixed on the ring. Her world had shattered in a single evening. Her home was gone. Her name had changed. And somewhere in her blood, fire whispered secrets she wasn't ready to hear.
"I don't know if I can be her," she said quietly.
"You must be yourself," the Remnant replied. "And that will be enough."
A twig snapped in the distance.
Arin froze.
The woman turned sharply. "We're not alone."
They stood together, listening.
Another snap. Then movement.
Figures emerged from the trees—hooded, cloaked in gray. Their eyes glowed faintly, silver in the moonlight.
"Shadow Court," the Remnant hissed.
Arin's heart leapt to her throat.
The lead figure stepped forward and lowered his hood. His face was pale, gaunt, and marked with a sigil burned into the skin. "We've come for the fire," he said, voice like smoke and stone.
Arin raised her hands instinctively—and for the first time, the fire obeyed.