Chapter 1: The Forgotten Village
The roof was crumbling.
A thin layer of mist clung to the morning air as Kael lay awake, staring at the decaying beams above his head. The straw-filled mattress beneath him was barely softer than the hardened dirt floor. Beside him, his elder brother Joren snored loudly, each breath rising and falling like the rhythm of a forge hammer.
Beyond the thin, cracked wall of their one-room shack, their mother's voice drifted in—half-muttering, half-scolding—interrupted only by the dry click click of their father's pipe.
Kael closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep. Tomorrow would be another long day, and if he didn't rise early, he'd miss the chance to head into the hills with the others to gather firewood. That meant no coin, no supper, and another round of scolding from his mother.
His name wasn't always Kael. He used to be called "Mute Boy" by the village kids—sometimes "Ash Rat." It was Old Barret, the village's half-blind scribe, who had finally given him a proper name. Two stale loaves of barley bread in exchange for a name worth remembering.
He was ten years old now. Scrawny, soot-skinned, and quiet. Just another forgotten child in a forgotten village tucked into the jagged edges of the Ashvale Mountains.
But Kael was not like the other children.
They chased chickens and threw rocks at each other all day. Kael listened. He remembered. And he dreamed.
He dreamed of cities carved from white stone, of towers that scraped the clouds, of stories Old Barret told when the wine loosened his tongue—stories of Scholars, of Scribes, and of men who bent the world to their will.
But he never told anyone his dreams. In Ashvale, dreaming was a dangerous thing. You either worked, or you starved. No one escaped. No one ever left.
Not until the day his uncle came back.
The Stranger in Silk
Kael returned from the hills, sweat clinging to his brow, his back aching from the load of kindling he carried. Tucked carefully inside his shirt was a satchel of wild berries—his little sister's favorite.
He didn't expect to find a man in silks waiting on the broken bench outside their shack. The man was round-faced, soft-handed, and far too clean to belong in Ashvale.
"Kael," his mother called. "Come greet your uncle."
Uncle? Kael blinked. He vaguely remembered the man from years ago—a fleeting face, a hand that once gave him a honeyed plum.
The man smiled warmly. "You've grown. And you still have your father's eyes."
Kael said nothing. He only bowed, shy and cautious.
Inside, the grown-ups spoke in hushed tones. Kael listened, picking up words like "Order," "Testing," and "Candidate."
Then he heard the name: The Verdant Flame.
His uncle, it turned out, had joined the outer ranks of a secretive sect known as the Verdant Flame—a reclusive order said to wield power older than kings and more mysterious than gods. Once every five years, they allowed common-born children—ages seven to twelve—to undergo a trial. Those who passed became disciples. Those who failed… well, even they didn't return empty-handed.
The offer was simple: Kael could come with him. Try the trial.
At first, his father hesitated. Words like "Order" and "Sect" didn't sit well with a man who believed in earth, sweat, and nothing else.
But one phrase tipped the scale.
"One silver coin. Per month. Even as an outer initiate."
That was more than any man in Ashvale earned in a season.
They agreed.
His uncle left behind a pouch of coins and a bottle of rare wine. "Feed the boy well," he said. "In a month, I'll come back for him."
The Road Begins
The day his uncle returned, Kael didn't cry.
He stood by the cart, his small pack tied with frayed rope, his father's rough hands resting on his shoulders.
"Be obedient," the old man said, "and never pick a fight you can't win."
His mother hugged him tightly. "Eat. Sleep. Survive."
Kael climbed onto the cart.
He didn't look back when the wheels began to turn. He only clenched his fists and whispered to himself,
I will return. With silver. With power. I will never be forgotten again.
What Kael didn't know then was that silver would mean little in the days ahead.
For his path would lead not to wealth, but to fire, blood—and ascension.