Chapter 1: The Boy in the Ashes
The first thing he remembered was fire.
Not the kind that warms your hands or dances in a hearth, but the kind that devours, howls, and tears through the night like a beast unchained. Flames curled around the broken skeletons of stone towers, licked the bones of shattered carriages, and painted the sky in a sinister orange.
And in the center of it all—he awoke.
A boy, no older than seventeen, his clothes tattered and stained with soot, lay in the ash-strewn grass. He coughed violently as the air choked his lungs. Smoke swirled around him, thick and dark, clinging to his skin like a second death.
He didn't remember his name.
He didn't remember how he came to be in the ruins of what had once been a grand fortress. All he knew was that his hands were burnt but not blistered, that the ground beneath him trembled as if the earth itself mourned, and that something—someone—had whispered to him in the fire.
"Live."
The voice had been cold and commanding, and yet impossibly familiar.
"Hey! There's someone alive over here!" a voice called in the distance.
The boy blinked, turning his head toward the sound. Shapes emerged from the smoke: people—no, soldiers—clad in dark blue armor, their faces grim under visored helms. One of them rushed forward, sword drawn, while another held up a lantern that cast eerie light over the debris.
"By the gods…" one murmured. "He survived this?"
"He's not from our battalion," another said. "Look at his eyes."
The boy reached up, confused. What was wrong with his eyes?
Before he could speak, he was already slipping into unconsciousness again—only this time, it wasn't from smoke or heat.
It was something deeper. A pull. A memory clawing at the walls of his mind like a beast in a cage.
---
When he woke again, it was to the steady creak of wood and the gentle lapping of water.
He was on a cart, covered by a scratchy blanket. A cold breeze brushed his face. He sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his ribs. Around him, the scenery passed in blurs of pine trees, ruined farmland, and distant mountains.
"You're awake," said a voice beside him.
He turned. A girl, around his age, sat at the edge of the cart. She wore travel leathers and a short blue cape, and her hair was tied back in a loose braid. Her eyes were a piercing silver, alert and unflinching.
"Name?" she asked.
"I... I don't remember."
She frowned but didn't seem surprised.
"We found you in the ruins of Castle Veredyn. It was supposed to be a clean-up mission—burn what was left, retrieve artifacts. But then you showed up, lying in the ash like a ghost."
He looked down at his hands. They were pale and unmarked now, no sign of the fire.
"What happened there?" he asked.
"No one knows. Castle Veredyn was destroyed in a single night. No survivors. The sky was torn open with red lightning, and the winds carried screams. They say a spell was cast—a forbidden kind, lost to the ages."
Her voice dropped, eyes narrowing.
"They say whoever survived it... isn't human."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. Deep inside, something in him twitched. A whisper in the back of his mind. That voice again.
"You are not one of them."
"What's your name?" he asked her, if only to change the subject.
"Lyra," she said. "Captain of the scout regiment for the Kingdom of Aerryn."
She extended a hand, and though hesitant, he took it.
"Until we figure out what you are," she said, "you're coming with us. King's orders."
---
That night, they camped near a dead river. The other soldiers kept their distance, whispering about the boy in the ash. Lyra sat by the fire, sharpening her blade, occasionally glancing his way. He sat on a rock, staring into the flames.
"You sure you don't remember anything?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"What about dreams? Flashes? Anything strange?"
He hesitated.
"There was… a place. White walls. A woman's voice. She sang something. And then…" he paused. "A black star."
Lyra froze.
"A black star?"
He nodded.
"I saw it in the sky, burning, pulsing like a heart. And I felt like it was watching me."
For the first time, Lyra looked afraid.
"You need to speak to the High Oracle," she said quietly. "She'll know if your visions mean what I think they do."
"And what do you think they mean?"
She didn't answer.
But the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of chanting. Distant, impossible, and yet real. The fire crackled louder, and suddenly the boy's shadow stretched long and thin behind him—too long.
He stood quickly.
"What was that?" he asked.
Lyra was already drawing her blade.
"That's not supposed to happen," she whispered. "Everyone, on your feet!"
Soldiers jumped up, weapons drawn. The horses neighed in alarm. The chanting grew louder, echoing from the trees.
Then the first arrow flew.
It struck a soldier in the neck. He dropped without a sound.
Then came the others—men and women in bone masks, robes soaked in crimson, emerging from the dark like phantoms.
"Bloodborn!" someone shouted. "We're ambushed!"
Chaos erupted. Steel clashed with bone. Arrows hissed. The boy stood frozen, until Lyra shoved him down.
"Stay low! Don't let them see your eyes!" she screamed.
But it was too late.
One of the Bloodborn turned toward him—and stopped. The cultist stared at him, eyes wide behind the mask.
"It's him," the robed figure whispered.
And then, the entire group of enemies faltered. Some dropped their weapons. One even knelt.
The battlefield stilled.
"Forgive us," the lead cultist said, voice shaking. "We did not know… You have returned."
The boy stared, heart pounding.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The cultist raised a trembling hand to his chest.
"We are your faithful. We serve the Black Star. And you—" he said, voice hushed with awe, "—you are its Heir."