In the magical realm of Valmyra, the Elvaron family reigns supreme—legendary spellcasters with unmatched power, descended from the ancient First Flame. So when Aeren Elvaron is born under a rare celestial omen, the world expects greatness.

But by sixteen, Aeren hasn’t conjured a single spell.

Powerless, shunned, and humiliated, he stumbles into a forbidden vault beneath his family’s estate and accidentally awakens a long-lost relic—the Eye of Kael’tharan, a mark tied to a forgotten god of unimaginable magic.

Suddenly hunted by his own bloodline and mysterious forces beyond the known world, Aeren flees into the cursed Emberwild Forest, where monsters lurk and the trees remember the dead. There, he meets Kaelen, a rogue mage with secrets of her own, who reveals the truth: Aeren’s power doesn’t follow the rules of normal magic—it breaks them.

Haunted by visions, pursued by enemies, and tied to a prophecy he doesn’t understand, Aeren embarks on a journey to unlock the truth of his powers. But to do so, he must confront ancient legacies, train under brutal conditions, and unite with other marked wielders—before a rising darkness devours the realm.

Because sometimes… the world’s last hope is the one it tried to forget.

The village of Mornhollow was the last outpost before the tundra swallowed all trace of civilization. Its wooden walls were half-buried in snow, and every building leaned slightly, as though bowing to the cold.


Aeren and Elira arrived just after dusk. The sun hung on the horizon like a fading ember, and the aurora above writhed with unfamiliar colors—reds, violets, a sickly green that flickered like a heartbeat.


Inside, only three locals sat by the hearth: an old woman muttering to her cat, a man with frostbite scars on his cheeks, and a tall, pale stranger nursing something thick and steaming.


Elira removed her hood. "We're looking for someone who's seen the Crown's magic. Anything strange."


The frostbite man laughed without mirth. "Everything's strange now."


But the pale stranger spoke without turning. "They passed through here. One of them wasn't… breathing."


"Felt them," the stranger corrected. "She left a curse in the well. I've been drinking boiled snow since."


Elira blinked. "Why are you still here?"


He turned, and his eyes shimmered—not silver, but with an echo of something deep and ancient.


"Because I remember. And that makes me dangerous."


He stood and removed his glove. A brand glowed on his palm—a glyph of exile from the Crown.


"They called me 'Coldborn,'" he said. "But my real name is Veylan."


Aeren's hand hovered near his blade. "Were you loyal to them?"


"I was a child soldier. Loyalty had nothing to do with it."


Veylan looked at Aeren with calm defiance. "But I know what Aris is trying to do. And I can help you stop her."


In the tower, Aris sat on the frozen throne, fingers curled in thought.


"She's taken the bait," said a voice behind her—thin and hollow, like wind through bone.


Aris tilted her head. "No. He has. Elira follows the flame. Aeren follows echoes."


The shadow behind her hesitated. "And Roen?"


"Roen remembers." She smiled. "That's all I ever needed."


She waved a hand, and ice cracked in the depths below the tower.


Chapter 31 - Coldborn Kin