The sky did not crack quietly.
It screamed.
A jagged line of burning red split the heavens from horizon to horizon, like a wound torn open by unseen hands. The stars flickered, swallowed by rivers of molten light spreading across the darkness. Then the fire began to fall.
Black flames rained from above.
They did not burn houses.
They did not scorch fields.
They burned the air itself.
In the walled kingdom of Valtheris, bells rang in frantic chorus. Priests fell to their knees. Soldiers stared upward in terror.
"The Ashfall…" someone whispered.
Beyond the safety of the walls, in a small wooden hut pressed against the forest's edge, a child was born.
And when he opened his eyes—
The sky fractured again.
Far across the continent, deep within the Abyssal Citadel where demons ruled beneath obsidian towers, a presence stirred.
A towering figure clad in crimson armor froze mid-step.
His wings—formed of hardened blades—trembled.
He turned toward the surface world.
And slowly… deliberately… he dropped to one knee.
"The First Flame…" Serathiel murmured.
"He has returned."
The child did not cry.
He did not flail or wail like newborns should.
He simply stared.
Gray eyes. Too aware. Too steady.
Outside, black embers drifted through the trees like dying stars.
Inside, the midwife backed away.
"There's no Ember Core," she whispered in horror.
Every human possessed one. A crystallized shard of divine fire embedded near the heart. It was the source of strength, rank, magic—life itself.
But when she pressed her trembling hand to the infant's chest…
There was nothing.
No warmth.
No pulse of energy.
Only stillness.
"He's… empty."
The child blinked slowly.
And somewhere high above, the red fracture in the sky deepened.
Kael Ashborne grew beneath whispers.
Coreless.
Cursed.
Ashborn.
Children avoided him. Adults spoke carefully around him. Priests looked at him with unease disguised as pity.
Without an Ember Core, he should have been weak.
But he was not.
By the age of five, he had never once fallen ill.
By seven, he could run longer than older boys.
By ten, he could split wood with a single strike—without ever being taught how.
And when he grew angry—
The air grew warm.
Not hot.
Just warm.
Like the promise of something waiting.
Kael did not understand it.
He did not ask about it.
He simply watched the world in silence.
Observed it.
Listened.
The sky still bore its scar from the night he was born. A thin red fracture stretching endlessly across the heavens, glowing faintly at dusk.
Some nights, he felt like it was watching him.
The exile came quietly.
It was decided in the temple hall.
"A Coreless child is a liability."
"An omen."
"The Ashfall marked him."
Kael stood before them at thirteen years old, gray eyes steady beneath messy white hair.
"You may leave before dawn," the High Priest said gently, as if kindness softened cruelty.
Kael did not argue.
He simply nodded.
That night, he walked beyond the walls.
Alone.
No anger.
No tears.
Just curiosity.
What waited beyond fear?
The world outside Valtheris was not kind.
Ruined villages lay swallowed by vines.
Charred fields stretched beneath broken watchtowers.
Demons roamed freely beyond human territory—creatures shaped from shadow and flame.
But none attacked him.
They watched.
From treetops.
From ruins.
From the edges of firelight.
And when his gray eyes met theirs—
They retreated.
As if uncertain.
As if remembering something they could not name.
It was three days into his wandering that Kael found the ruins.
Half-buried beneath ash and time.
Black stone pillars twisted like reaching hands. Symbols carved into them pulsed faintly when he stepped near.
He felt it then.
A pull.
Not external.
Internal.
Like something calling from inside his own chest.
He followed it through collapsed corridors and shattered arches until he reached the heart of the ruin.
A pit.
Endless.
Dark.
And hovering above it—
A mask.
It burned without consuming itself.
Flames shaped into smooth, curved edges. One half serene. The other jagged and sharp. Runes carved into the fire itself, shifting like living script.
It did not radiate heat.
Instead—
It radiated recognition.
Kael stepped forward.
The air trembled.
The red fracture in the sky above flickered brighter.
He stood at the pit's edge, staring at the mask.
It tilted slightly.
As if studying him.
A whisper filled the silence.
"You have returned."
Kael's brow furrowed.
"I don't remember you."
The mask drifted closer.
Flames licked gently along his cheek—warm, not burning.
"Memory is ash," the voice replied. "But fire remembers."
Something stirred within him.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Understanding.
Slowly, he reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the mask—
The world inhaled.
Flame surged—but did not burn him. It wrapped around his arm like silk. The runes flared brilliant gold.
Above the ruins, the sky cracked wider.
Demons across the wilderness froze.
In the Abyssal Citadel, Serathiel rose sharply from his throne.
"It begins."
Kael lifted the mask.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Not because he feared it.
But because it felt like stepping across a line he could never uncross.
Then he pressed it against the right side of his face.
The fire fused instantly.
No pain.
Only clarity.
His vision sharpened.
The world slowed.
Gray eyes ignited molten gold.
White hair lifted in unseen wind.
The pit beneath him erupted—not outward, but inward—collapsing into light.
Images flashed through his mind.
A throne of flame.
A sky unbroken.
Demons kneeling.
A heart splitting into countless shards.
His heart.
Kael staggered.
The mask dimmed slightly, settling against his skin like living armor.
Breathing hard, he looked at his hand.
Fire danced above his palm.
Not wild.
Controlled.
Obedient.
It did not burn the ground beneath it.
It did not scorch his skin.
It simply existed.
Waiting.
He closed his fingers.
The flame condensed into a small, pulsing ember.
And for the first time in his life—
He felt whole.
High above, the red fracture in the sky expanded.
Not violently.
Not chaotically.
But deliberately.
As if acknowledging its master.
Kael stood alone in the ruins, half his face crowned in living flame.
He did not smile.
He did not speak.
He simply looked toward the distant horizon where kingdoms slept behind stone walls.
He did not hate them.
He did not seek revenge.
But something ancient stirred within him.
Not destruction.
Not conquest.
Rebirth.
And far across the continent, as demons began to move and the air itself thickened with anticipation—
A single truth echoed through the world of Aetheris:
The Coreless boy was never empty.
He had simply been waiting.
The First Flame had awakened.
And the shattered sky would never be whole again. 🔥