"When the five elements stir, so too does fate…"
The sun bled across the horizon like a wound that would never heal. Cracks split the once fertile land of Greyholt, a dying frontier village clinging to the edge of the Ashlands—forgotten by kings, ignored by sects, and cursed by the heavens.
Surya crouched near the old well, its bricks blackened by time. His hands, blistered and rough, gripped a chipped clay pot as he waited. The line moved with the speed of dust—slow and inevitable. No one spoke. There was little to say when your gods had abandoned you.
At fifteen, Surya was gaunt and underfed, a boy of hollow cheeks and haunted eyes. His hair, once ink-black, had faded into a dull ash-brown from years of drought and sun. His arms were wiry from labor, but his shoulders sagged like a man thrice his age.
Behind him, someone sneered. "Still pretending you belong here, sparkless?"
Surya didn't turn. He knew the voice—Kael, the blacksmith's golden child. Already a Second Flame Initiate with a Fire Affinity that had awakened like a song in his blood.
Kael spat near Surya's feet. "You should've burned with your mother."
Surya's knuckles whitened. The clay pot in his hands trembled.
"Careful," Kael said with a cruel grin. "Wouldn't want to waste water. Might be the only thing you ever carry."
Surya didn't reply. Words were cheap. Fire was power. And Surya had neither.
He was born without an elemental spark.
At least, that's what everyone believed.
Greyholt had once been proud—famous for its embersteel artisans, its flame-smiths respected even by sect envoys. But the world moved on. Spiritual veins beneath the land dried. Flames flickered out. Those with talent left for greater sects or richer realms. The rest… faded.
Surya lived alone in a crumbling shrine once tended by a blind priest. A place of forgotten gods, etched with runes no one could read. People whispered about it—said it was cursed, touched by the Ashlands.
He liked it that way. Silence didn't ask questions.
But sometimes, the silence whispered back.
That night, as moonlight leaked through the broken roof, Surya felt it again—a low thrum deep in his bones. A vibration, old and hungry.
The flame is not always visible, Surya… sometimes it sleeps in ash.
The voice wasn't sound. It came in pulses—like breath through burning coals.
He sat up, sweat beading on his brow. "Who are you?" he whispered.
No reply.
Only the wind.
He unwrapped the cloth from his chest, revealing the strange birthmark. A spiral sun with seven jagged rays. One ray was broken.
Tonight, it glowed faintly—like a coal reigniting.
It had never done that before.
Morning brought smoke.
Dark plumes rose from the western hills, stretching like skeletal fingers into the sky. Surya ran to the cliff's edge near the old bell tower. From there, he saw fire licking the edges of the forest. Not natural flame—controlled. Directed.
Three figures strode through it—cloaked in crimson, their robes inscribed with the sigil of a serpent devouring a sun.
The Crimson Order.
He'd only heard of them in whispers—rogue cultivators exiled from the great sects. Flame-binders who used forbidden techniques. Flame was sacred… but they turned it into hunger.
Village bells rang.
Elder Branwyn staggered to the square, voice hoarse. "All able-bodied gather! The Order approaches. Do not resist!"
The crowd murmured. Children cried. Some ran.
Surya's chest flared with heat. The mark on his skin pulsed—once… twice… then steadied.
They're looking for someone.
The thought was not his own.
He ducked behind a hut as the figures approached. One carried a staff of black iron, topped with a flickering ember heart. Another wore a mask shaped like a bird's skull. The third… was not human.
Its face was veiled in smoke. No feet touched the ground. Flames coiled around it like snakes.
"We seek the Elemental Marked," the masked one called. "Step forward, and your village will remain."
No one moved.
The staff bearer stepped forward, voice soft but cutting. "Then we will find it ourselves."
One by one, villagers were dragged forward. Scanned. Branded.
Surya felt a pressure behind his eyes. His mark began to burn.
He staggered.
The third figure turned suddenly—toward him.
Run, the voice whispered.
"Now!"
Surya bolted. Past the granary. Past the dying tree that once marked the village's heart. Into the Ashlands.
Behind him, fire roared.
The Ashlands were where fire went to die.
Twisted trees stood like skeletal remains. The ground crackled with old lava scars. Surya ran until his lungs screamed. Until the trees whispered again.
He tripped over a root—fell hard.
And the world… shifted.
His body floated. No pain. No air.
He stood before a tree of ash, towering and ancient. Its bark was white. Its leaves, burning slowly in reverse—fire curling inward.
Seven orbs of elemental light spun around it—one flickering dimly. One missing entirely.
The Ash Tree… he whispered.
"You are early," said a voice—deep, layered with echoes.
A figure stepped out from the tree. Not man. Not beast.
It had seven eyes.
One was shut.
"You were meant to awaken later," it said. "But fate has been… accelerated."
"Who are you?" Surya asked, unable to move.
The being tilted its head. "I am the sentinel of forgotten fires. Guardian of what was sealed."
The orbs circled faster. One descended—into Surya's chest.
Flame erupted.
He screamed.
Pain lanced through every vein. Fire… but not heat. It was memory. Lives. Voices. A burning sun trapped inside a mortal boy.
"Why me?" he gasped.
"Because you are not meant to be," the sentinel said.
"And yet… here you are."
When Surya awoke, the Ashlands were silent.
His skin was scorched, but intact. His mark had changed. The broken ray was no longer broken.
Something had awakened.
Behind him, a flare of red light rose.
They were coming.
He gritted his teeth, stood, and whispered to no one:
"I won't die here."
He walked deeper into the Ashlands.
Into a world already burning.