Eldenrock village sat quietly at the edge of the Duskwatch Forest, nestled between whispering trees and rolling hills of golden moss. Cobblestone paths curved between crooked wooden cottages with moss-covered rooftops. A thin mist always lingered here, even in the summer sun, as if the land itself remembered something it wasn't ready to share.
Eldenrock wasn't just any village—it was a Flameborn Settlement, one of the oldest in the Kingdom of Flarehold. Generations of mystic flame-wielders had risen from here, and every child born in Eldenrock hoped, prayed, and trained to awaken their own spark.
Today was the Awakening Ceremony—a sacred rite that took place only once each year, when the village's fifteen-year-olds stood before the Stone of Ignition to discover their flame.
Aeron Vale stood quietly near the back of the ceremonial circle, his fists clenched so tightly they trembled. The early morning fog clung to his dark, shoulder-length hair, and sweat had already soaked the collar of his stitched tunic. He wasn't tall, or broad like the others. His skin was fair, but marked with old bruises. His eyes were a deep ash-gray—quiet, observant, unsure.
For years, he'd dreamed of this day. Of stepping forward to place his hand on the Stone, and watching a brilliant flame of his own burst into existence, like the legends said. Like his father once did—before he vanished.
But Aeron had never shown even a spark. No burning in the chest. No warmth in the hands. Just… cold silence.
In the center of the ceremonial platform stood a black, egg-shaped stone mounted on a pedestal of obsidian. It pulsed with a slow, red heartbeat—alive, in a way that defied logic. The Stone was believed to be a fragment of the First Flame, gifted to humanity by the Flame Gods themselves.
Each child, upon touching the Stone, would receive either:
• A spark: the first sign of their unique flame magic.
• A flash: for those with rare power.
• Nothing: for those who would never awaken. It had happened only three times in 200 years.
The village square was packed. Families leaned out of windows, elders whispered predictions, and children stood on barrels to catch a glimpse. At the front, Elder Maelin, robed in fire-red and gold, raised his staff and struck the stone platform.
"Let the Ceremony of Flames begin. Step forward, children of fire."
One by one, the teens went up. Each placed a hand on the Stone.
A flash of green—a girl named Sera gained nature-flame magic.
A burst of orange—Bran, a tall boy with warrior's blood, received combustion power.
A swirl of silver—Lyra Nox, the mysterious outsider girl, stepped forward quietly and ignited a shadow flame. The crowd gasped. It was rare… and dangerous.
Then came Aeron's turn.
He walked forward slowly, legs stiff, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the crowd. He looked up at the Stone—glowing, living, breathing—and placed both hands on it.
He waited.
Nothing.
He pushed harder.
Nothing.
The crowd went quiet.
He gritted his teeth. "Please," he whispered. "Just a flicker."
The Stone went black, dimming completely for the first time that day.
A collective gasp.
"...It didn't respond," someone whispered.
Elder Maelin gently lowered his head.
"Aeron Vale... has not awakened."
Children snickered. A few adults shook their heads in pity. Aeron didn't look up. He turned and walked back, slow and silent, his hands still trembling.
Kain—his closest friend once—didn't meet his eyes. Lyra gave him a long, unreadable stare before looking away.
Aeron's world cracked.
He had no flame.
No purpose.
No future.
He left the village after dark, walking deep into Duskwatch Forest, where the trees grew like claws and no flame ever stayed lit for long. Locals said it was cursed—but Aeron no longer cared.
He sat on a rock near the roots of an old, rotting tree, head bowed.
"I would've taken anything," he whispered.
"Even the weakest flame. Why not me?"
Silence.
Then… a voice.
Low. Hollow. Ancient.
"Because you were not meant to carry a spark... You were meant to carry a fire the world fears."
Aeron shot to his feet. His breath caught. The air grew cold.
And then it happened.
Black fire—cold, silent, eerie—began leaking from his hands like smoke.
It didn't burn.
It whispered.
It pulsed with rage, pain, and memory.
His eyes turned pitch black. Symbols he had never seen began glowing faintly on his arms.
"You are the last bearer of the Forbidden Ember."
A shockwave rippled through the forest.
Aeron screamed—half in pain, half in awakening—and collapsed.
From behind a tree, in the shadows, a tall figure watched him quietly, eyes glowing red under a metal mask.
He did not speak. He only turned, disappearing into the trees with a slow nod—because what he saw that night was not the end of a boy... but the beginning of a threat.