Kieran's fingertips pressed against the stone, and for a moment, all was still.
Then, warmth.
The ancient slab was hot—subtly, strangely warm, though the fires around it had long since died. He flinched but didn't pull away. Under his touch, the etching began to glow, the letters lighting one by one like embers stoked by an unseen breath.
From Ash, Fire:
The faint mark above the period ignited, bright and sure. And beneath it, new lines flared into being, carved not by chisel, but by magic itself—fiery letters unfurling in a language both familiar and foreign. Kieran's breath hitched.
The words blazed beneath his fingers:
From Ash, Fire: From Fire, Rebirth. In the blood of the fallen shall rise the Flameborn. Marked by ruin, tempered in loss, they shall carry the wrath of old embers into a world unready.
He read it aloud, voice shaking.
"From Ash, Fire… From Fire, Rebirth… In the blood of the fallen shall rise the Flameborn… Marked by ruin, tempered in loss… they shall carry the wrath of old embers into a world unready."
As he finished, the runes pulsed brightly, once, twice—then surged upward in a torrent of fire, baptizing him in the flames that ran through his blood. His hand snapped against the stone as the fiery script flowed into him, threading through his skin like molten thread. His body locked in place. He gasped, but the sound was drowned in a crackling roar that only he could hear.
His heart pounded. A heat deeper than fire bloomed in his chest, behind his ribs—then spread, spiraling outward to his limbs, his spine, his skull. Visions flashed in his mind: a sword burning in his grip, a phoenix-winged sigil, a city bowing beneath a crimson sky.
Then silence.
Kieran collapsed to his knees, panting. Smoke curled from his fingertips. The mark on the stone had vanished—no more glowing letters, no prophecy, nothing. Only the ancient motto remained.
Yet everything felt different.
His senses were sharper—the distant rustling of wind through scorched leaves sounded as clear as whispers beside his ear. He could feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath his palms, the warmth of stone still pulsing faintly like an echo of breath.
Power coursed beneath his skin, not wild or erratic, but heavy with purpose, like a forge ready to shape steel. The ache of his grief and fear hadn't faded, but it was wrapped now in something else—resolve, ironclad and burning.
He looked at his hands. A faint red shimmer pulsed just beneath the skin, like coals banked under the surface. His veins tingled with heat, alive with new energy.
He didn't know what it all meant—not yet. But he knew this: he was no longer just a boy.
Something had awakened.
And it would not be buried again.
But something in him had changed. He could feel it—a deep thrum in his blood, a rhythm older than his name.
The Flameborn.
He had awakened something.
And now the world would have to reckon with it.
In the quiet that followed, Kieran stood slowly, still catching his breath. As he turned to leave, his eyes caught a glint in the rubble—a flash of dull steel half-buried in scorched wood and stone. He stepped over cautiously and reached down, brushing ash aside to reveal the hilt of his father's sword.
The weapon was battered, the edge nicked and marred by battle, but the crest of their house was still visible on the guard, blackened but proud. He gripped it tightly. The weight of it in his hand was grounding, familiar. It felt like a promise.
He tucked the sword into the sling Maera had given him and made his way back down the slope toward the grove where the two maids waited.
Maera rose at the sound of his footsteps. Her eyes scanned him quickly, searching for wounds, but paused when she saw the sword. Her lips tightened.
"It's time," she said, taking charge with a voice that brooked no argument. "We can't linger here. The raiders might return. First, we go to Greystead. Your father gave me orders—if the worst happened, I'm to inform Arkwyn personally. He'll know what to do and may offer aid. Only after that do we make for the capital."
Kieran blinked. "The capital?"
Ysolde, still pale and red-eyed, looked up as Maera continued. "We're taking you both to the Royal Academy. It's the safest place for now, and your best chance. Kieran, your father wanted you to take the entrance exam. That hasn't changed. If anything, it matters even more now."
Maera reached into her satchel and pulled out a sealed letter. "This is from your father. He left instructions… in case of the worst."
Kieran took the letter without a word, his fingers trembling slightly.
Maera looked between them, her voice softening. "You are all that's left of House Ashveil. That name still carries weight. But only if you survive—and rise."
Kieran glanced back toward the blackened skyline where his home had stood. He tightened his grip on the sword.
"Then we rise."