The desert swallowed the last echo of gunfire like a ravenous beast consuming its prey. Flames twisted upwards from the burning wreckage of Kaelen's convoy, casting flickering shadows on the barren sand. The sun's relentless glare beat down on the shattered remnants, turning blood and oil into a dark, sticky stain that seeped into the earth.
Kaelen's breath came ragged, but his mind was sharp, even as pain lanced through his side. The war was over, but not with glory. His doctrine, the strategies he'd honed in a thousand battles, had perished here with him—or so it seemed.
Kaelen died in silence. No glory. No last words. Just the endless desert swallowing everything — the echoes of gunfire, the men he'd led, the blood spilled on cracked sand. Hours ago, the world had burned and fallen apart under a sky full of smoke and ash. Now there was only quiet. And regret.
He should have written it down. The strategy. The truth. Maybe if he had, his men wouldn't have died for nothing. But it was too late. Everything was lost.
Then black.
When his eyes opened, pain was the first thing he felt — sharp and biting. Cold iron shackles cut into wrists so raw they burned like fire. His body wasn't his own anymore. Too small, too thin, too broken. He was a boy again — barely fifteen, skin sunburned tight over ribs that felt like they could break. His bare feet scraped the rough wood floor of the slave wagon, each bump sending fresh pain through his bruised muscles.
The air inside was thick and sour — sweat, dust, and fear mixed into a choking smell. Around him, dozens of others sat in chains — some crying softly, others staring ahead like ghosts who had given up hope.
Kaelen's throat tightened. Panic tried to rise in his chest, but he pushed it down. He had to think. Had to.
That's when he saw the old man nearby. His cheeks were marked by cruel scars, but his eyes were sharp and steady, not broken by despair. The man leaned close and whispered something only Kaelen could hear.
"You hear it? The worldfire beneath the mountains? She's waking again. You... you burn too bright to die in chains."
Kaelen said nothing, but inside, a spark lit — faint and dangerous. He swallowed dry air and fought to calm his racing heart.
The wagon jolted again, grinding over rough stones. Through narrow slats, Kaelen watched the guards.
They were careless.
The patrols moved slow and lazy, walking the same paths over and over as if nothing could happen. No sentries watched the high cliffs for danger. No runners rushed between posts with warnings. The narrow canyon was closed on one side by sheer rock, but the other side was open — a rocky slope they left unguarded.
His mind sharpened despite the ache in his body — years of battle training came flooding back in clear detail.
Choke points.
Blind spots.
Shift changes.
Weaknesses.
The guards were amateurs. They left every door open, every flank unprotected.
Kaelen's breath caught. A flicker of hope lit inside. Not just hope — a plan.
Suddenly, a sharp sound cut through the air — a fist hitting a child's face. The girl next to Kaelen screamed, voice raw and scared. His stomach twisted with rage and helplessness.
Then, heat exploded inside him. Noctus — a wild, dangerous fire from old stories — surged beneath his skin. It burned bright, fierce, and raw.
Kaelen clenched his fists until his nails dug into flesh. The pain focused him. The fire grew.
His voice was rough but steady, a whisper just for the girl chained beside him.
"Count to sixty. Then scream. When he turns, I'll grab his knife."
Chains bit deep into his wrists, skin tearing, but he didn't care.
His mind worked faster than ever.
Seconds passed like bombs.
He watched the guard's slow, lazy steps — how he shifted his weight, the careless way he held his knife loose at his side.
One opening. One mistake.
His body coiled, muscles aching, heart pounding.
Not a scared boy. A predator ready to strike.
Ashborn's war — Kaelen's war — was just beginning.
The wagon jolted again. Every sound was sharper: the guards' slow footsteps, the girl's trembling breath, the chains clinking with each movement. He could almost feel the cool canyon air slipping through cracks, a small relief against the sweat on his back.
Kaelen's mind replayed everything — the lost battle, the men who died trusting his commands, the strategy lost with the desert wind. He could almost hear their voices, their hope.
But no more.
This time, he would survive.
This time, he would fight smarter.
He reached through the haze of pain and hunger for every lesson burned into his bones. War was a game of inches and seconds — and he had both.
The guards were careless because they were too comfortable. Kaelen's mind sharpened instinctively. He counted patrols—three on the high ridge, scanning the canyon; two more flanking the narrow pass ahead. No archers hidden in the cliffs. No runners ready to raise alarm. The path they'd chosen was a novice's mistake: defensible at the centre but fatally exposed from the rear.
He traced the edges of the wagon's makeshift bars with his eyes. Broken chains lay scattered on the floor.
These men have never fought a real war.
They'd survived this long without real danger. But comfort was deadly.
Kaelen forced his breath steady, heart slowing just enough to think.
His eyes fixed on the slope — loose stones, boulders that could roll, dry brush that could catch fire.
Distraction.
He caught the patrols' quiet rhythm — their patterns, the gaps between shifts.
Timing.
The knife was his key. His only weapon.
He reached inside himself, searching for the Noctus fire, the strange power both terrifying and fierce. The heat flowed, sharp and alive. The cost of using it was unknown — but he didn't have time to care.
He looked at the old man again. His calm eyes held a fierce promise — Kaelen could still burn.
The other prisoners huddled close, broken and beaten, but in Kaelen's chest a flame grew — a promise that chains could never hold forever.
Kaelen's jaw clenched, pain forgotten as he focused on the seconds counting down.
Fifty-nine...
Fifty-eight...
Fifty-seven...
His breath was steady now. Controlled.
The moment was coming.
The moment to rise.
Ashborn's war — his war — was just beginning.
The weight of history pressed on him.
He remembered standing on the desert's edge, commanding troops with the confidence of a general who had studied every move, every countermove. The maps etched into his mind, every choke point memorized, every terrain advantage calculated.
But now those lessons felt like a dream. His knowledge trapped inside a boy's broken body, shackled and powerless.
Still, the mind never forgets.The wagon lurched as it rounded a bend, and Kaelen's gaze locked on the narrow canyon pass ahead. A choke point, hemmed in by jagged cliffs on either side. It was a trap, but also an opportunity. If they could collapse the loose rock at the rear, the guards would be cut off, and the prisoners could seize their weapons.
Every detail mattered: the guard rotations, the guard dogs' restless barking, the creak of leather harnesses. Kaelen mapped the terrain in his mind's eye, storing every feature like a general studying a battlefield map.
He imagined formations — shields raised to block arrows, spear points angled to drive the enemy back. He mentally rehearsed maneuvers, forcing himself to think beyond survival — toward victory.
His fingers curled around a shard of broken iron—a piece of his former life, a tool for the battle to come
His thoughts raced ahead, planning escape routes, contingencies, and possibilities.
If only he could get his hands free. If only he could reach that knife.
If only—
The wagon slowed. Guards shifted lazily, unaware of the storm gathering behind those young eyes.
The canyon stretched wide and empty, waiting.
Kaelen's fingers curled around the cold chain, feeling the rough iron that cut into his flesh.
This was no longer the end. It was the beginning.