Pickaxe hits stone. Hollow clang, echo lost in the chokehold dark of the Ember Mines. Kael's arms vibrate, pain buzzing from bone right out through battered muscle. He stops for a second, sucking in air. Sweat drips down his back, sticky and cold—his tunic plastered to skin, like an extra layer of filth he can't peel off. Every breath tastes like soot and pennies.
Above his head, a shardlight flickers, barely spitting out an orange glow through the bars of its rusted cage. Just enough light to see the next patch of rock he's supposed to break. There's this low hum too, barely there—a sad little sound, like the promise of light if you squint and don't get your hopes up.
All around, people work. Not talking, just working. Faces sunken, eyes hollow. Everyone's got that cough, some spitting blood, others just hacking up dust. Nobody says a word. Words travel, and so do the wrong ears. Down here, being noticed? Yeah, that's worse than the work.
Kael tightens his grip on the splintered pickaxe handle. Swing. Hit. Breathe. Don't die.
Clang.
He's not like everybody else. Well, that's what he tells himself. Most of these folks? Criminals, rebels, people who owed the Empire more than they could pay. Kael? As far as he knows, he's got nothing before this place. Just scraps. Fire. Screams. The sky on fire—black and red. Someone whispering his name in dreams.
Probably not even his real name, if he's honest.
They called him "Cinder Rat" from day one. The name stuck. Doesn't matter, anyway. Here, you don't get names. You get labels, numbers, or insults—if you're lucky. Real names? Those are for people who matter, and nobody matters down here except the overseers.
He runs his fingers over his back, feeling the raised scars under the gunk—scars shaped like wings, all twisted and half-finished. Been there as long as he can remember. They hurt when he gets scared.
Lately? They burn.
Clang.
Another swing, and the rock gives a creepy groan. Kael leans in, arms nearly quitting on him. There's this weird heat inside his chest, coiling up, just chilling there like it owns the place. He's felt it for days now, like a spark waiting for something. He keeps telling himself he's just tired, but that lie's wearing thin.
"Hey. Move it, Rat."
Oh, that voice. Overseer Varn—voice like a busted hinge, just scraping at your nerves.
He lumbers into the edge of the light, all burn scars and ugly helmet, eyes sharp as broken glass. In his hand? The electro-whip, blue lightning dancing along the wire. Kael looks down, grinding his teeth, speeding up. You don't argue. You don't stand out. You just try to last another day.
Don't talk back. Don't make waves. Survive.
That's the only game in town.
But then—third swing—something's off.
The pickaxe smacks into rock that's… wrong. Dry, brittle, breaks apart like old bread. The wall caves in, ash blasting out. Kael stumbles back, throws up an arm. Heat blasts out—ancient, dry, with a weird tang, like something's been waiting forever.
The shardlight overhead pops, flashes bright white—and dies.
Pitch black.
Shouting everywhere, tools clattering to the ground. Kael stops breathing for a second. In the dark, something pulses inside him—slow, insistent—like a second heart beating right under his skin.
Not fear.
A call.
His hands fly to his back. The scars there? On fire.
"Back away!" someone yells.
Yeah, not happening. He can't. Whatever's on the other side is dragging him in.
The dust settles. There's a chamber—hollow, round, way too smooth and perfect for any pickaxe. No damp, no drips, just bone-dry stone. Right in the middle, some kind of disk sits in the floor. Perfect circle. Not metal, not stone. Jet-black but shot through with glowing red-orange veins, like magma under glass. The light pulses, matching Kael's heartbeat.
He steps in. Air shifts. Warmer, hotter. His skin tingles. Every fiber in him screams to turn around.
Yeah, right.
He crosses the line. The pulse in the disk speeds up. That warmth in his chest? It's a fire now.
Pain rips through him, and he screams—not scared, just… letting go. The scars on his back split open, molten gold pouring out. Lines of fire streak across his skin, down his arms, red-hot rivers burning him up from the inside.
Then the world explodes in fire.
Not fire like anything he'd ever seen. This stuff shimmered—orange in the middle, fringed in electric blue, with streaks of white and silver zipping around like it was showing off. It didn't burn up the floor as it circled him; it just… moved. Alive and kicking.
Up above, the shardlight fizzed out and exploded. Glass everywhere. A couple folks in the tunnel gasped, but let me tell you, nobody was impressed—this was pure panic.
Kael got to his feet, shaking like he'd just seen a ghost. The fire? It stuck to him, head to toe, wrapped around his arms and chest like it was trying out for a superhero costume. His heart was hammering so loud he could barely hear himself think.
He glanced down. His hands—yeah, those were definitely on fire. But here's the kicker: it didn't hurt. Not even a little bit. The flames seemed to watch him, waiting for something.
Suddenly, dead silence. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
Then Varn's voice cut through, sharp and shaky: "What… what are you?" The guy's whip fell with a pathetic little thud.
Kael tried to answer. Nothing came out. He had no clue what he even was anymore.
The fire started to calm down, hiding itself as glowing lines under his skin.
And then someone whispered—a little scared, a little awestruck: "Flameborn…"
That hit him right in the chest. He didn't know what it meant, not really, but it felt like the truth. Not an insult. Not some cruel joke.
Just… him.
Varn, on the other hand, totally lost it. "He's cursed! A freak! The Empire forbids Flamecraft! Kill him before the Inquisition comes down on us!"
Now it was chaos. Guards stormed in, metal clanking, lightning crackling on their spears. Kael stepped back, hands up. "I didn't mean—" he started, but nobody was listening.
A guard charged. Instinct kicked in. Kael flinched, blast of fire shot out from his palm. Boom—sent the guard flying, armor smoking, the guy twitching on the ground.
Everything froze.
Then all hell broke loose.
Kael bolted. The fire wasn't heavy—it lifted him, powered him, like he was riding a rocket through the tunnels. He didn't just run, he streaked—comet-bright, lighting up corners nobody'd seen in years. Sirens wailed, people shouted, but it all blurred behind him. Blood in his ears, fire in his veins.
And the flames? They knew where to go. Like they'd been here before.
He zipped past busted-up rails, old mine carts, shafts that had collapsed ages ago. Finally, things went quiet.
He ended up in a cavern, way off the grid. No lights. No guards. Just him, firelight flickering off a still pool.
He dropped, gulping air.
The fire faded, sinking into his skin, leaving faint gold lines swirling across his arms. His hands shook. He felt wired, buzzing all over.
He leaned over the water. Stared into it.
His eyes sparkled, ember-red. Not the dull gray he used to see. Hard to say if he even recognized the guy staring back.
"What… am I?"
The words barely echoed. No answer. Just thick, heavy silence. And then—a warmth. Not inside him this time. All around. Not a voice, exactly, but a sense, old as the rocks. A name, burning bright in his head.
Kael.
His name. Not the one they'd slapped on him in chains.
The one the fire remembered.
And just like that, he got it—life wasn't gonna snap back to normal. Not now.
He was awake.
And the world? Yeah, it was about to catch fire.