CHAPTER 1; THE MARK THAT BURNS, The ashes of the Crown
The mark burned again.
It always did at dawn—when the world was quiet enough to hear truths no one wanted spoken. Kael woke with a sharp breath, fingers digging into the thin mattress as heat flared along his left shoulder, just beneath the collarbone. It was not the pain that frightened him anymore; pain had become familiar. It was the meaning behind it.
Fire never lies.
He sat up slowly, jaw clenched, waiting for the sensation to fade. Outside his narrow window, the ash-sky of Virel hung low and colorless, the sun a dull ember struggling through clouds of smoke left behind by wars no one officially remembered. Bells rang faintly in the lower city—iron on iron—calling workers to the forges and the poor to another day of survival.
Kael pulled his tunic aside and looked at the mark.
It was shaped like a broken crown.
Not the proud circlet sung of in old ballads, but a crown split down the center, its points jagged, as if shattered by flame. The lines glowed faintly red beneath his skin, pulsing like a living coal. No matter how many times he saw it, the sight tightened his chest.
"Curse you," he whispered—not to the mark, but to whatever power had placed it on him sixteen years ago.
He had been a child then. Too young to remember the night clearly. Only fragments remained: screams echoing through stone halls, the smell of smoke thick enough to choke, and hands—strong, desperate hands—pushing him into darkness. Then fire. Always fire.
The mark had appeared the next morning.
In Virel, marks meant only one thing.
Death—if the Crown's hunters ever saw it.
Kael bound his shoulder carefully, wrapping the faded cloth tight enough to hide the glow. He moved with the ease of long habit. Every motion was practiced, every precaution learned through fear. When he was done, the mark was gone from sight, but its heat still lingered, a warning etched into his bones.
Today would not be a quiet day. He felt it in the way the mark had burned hotter than usual.
He stepped outside into the narrow alley, boots crunching over ash and stone. The city stirred around him—vendors shouting, steel ringing, smoke rising. Virel lived as it always had: balanced on the edge of collapse, pretending the past was buried deep enough not to return.
A lie.
"Kael!"
He turned as Mira hurried toward him, her dark hair tied back, eyes sharp as ever. She stopped short when she saw his face.
"It's burning again, isn't it?" she asked softly.
Kael forced a smile. "It always does."
Mira didn't smile back. "The Ash Guard passed through the lower streets last night. They're asking questions. Old ones."
His stomach tightened. The Ash Guard served the Crown—or what remained of it. Soldiers draped in black and silver, sworn to hunt traitors, rebels, and relics of a kingdom that claimed to have been reborn from fire.
Relics like him.
"They won't find anything," Kael said, though the mark pulsed as if mocking the lie.
Mira leaned closer. "You don't know that. People are talking about signs. About fire appearing where it shouldn't. About a crown that fell but was never truly destroyed."
Kael looked away, toward the distant citadel rising above the city like a scar against the sky. Legends were dangerous things. So were people who believed in them.
"I'm not a legend," he said quietly. "I'm just trying to survive."
Mira's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then you need to leave. Because if the mark burns like that again… it means something is waking up."
As if summoned by her words, pain lanced through Kael's shoulder—sharp, fierce, undeniable. He staggered, gripping the wall as heat surged beneath the binding cloth.
Fire never lies.
Somewhere deep within the city, a horn sounded—low, long, and filled with authority. The Ash Guard had begun their hunt.
Kael straightened, eyes hardening as the burning spread, not just across his skin, but into his blood, his breath, his soul.
The crown had turned to ash.
But ash, he knew, still remembered fire.
And so did he.