"The blood of kings runs hot—but cursed blood burns."
—Old Emberfall Proverb
---
The flames danced higher than the sky dared reach.
Crimson licked the stars, and ash rained from the heavens like snow. The once-proud spires of Emberfall's royal citadel crumbled beneath the weight of betrayal, fire, and magic no mortal was meant to wield.
Somewhere beneath the smoke-choked clouds, a child cried.
The High Seer stood at the edge of the burning throne room, her once-golden robes blackened with soot. Her eyes—clouded by time and prophecy—stared into the inferno as if it whispered secrets only she could hear.
Behind her, knights lay scattered—some impaled by their blades, others charred beyond recognition. The crown lay cracked on the floor, its jewels melted into the stone like tears.
She turned to the man kneeling beside the infant. His armor was scorched, his face smeared with blood—some of it not his own. In his arms, the child wailed louder, untouched by flame, untouched by fate—until now.
"You cannot keep him here," the Seer said softly. Her voice, though weathered, cut deeper than steel.
"He is the last," the knight whispered, clutching the boy tighter. "He has his father's eyes."
"No," the Seer corrected, "he has his curse."
Silence fell, save for the crackle of dying flame.
"They will hunt him," the knight muttered, as if realization had just struck. "Every kingdom, every god. If they find him—"
"They will not," the Seer interrupted. "Not until the ash returns to the wind. Not until fire answers to blood."
She stepped forward and pressed a single silver rune to the child's brow. It sizzled on contact. The baby screamed—but did not burn.
"Hide him," she said. "Let him grow without a name, without the weight of what was stolen. When the curse awakens, so shall the kingdom's reckoning."
The knight hesitated, then rose to his feet.
As he turned toward the shattered gates, the child in his arms quieted. A single ember floated down and landed in the baby's hair—glowing for a moment, then fading.
The Seer watched them disappear into the smoke. She whispered one last prophecy to the ruins:
"Born of fire, shaped by shadows—
He will rise when all falls.
He will burn, or he will save.
But he will never be free."
---
The cursed bloodline lived on. Hidden. Waiting.
And Emberfall forgot what it once feared.