He awoke to fire and screaming.
Not distant. Not imagined.
Real.
Close.
The ground shook beneath him—cracked and bleeding molten light. The sky churned with smoke, thick with ash and ruin. Massive towers fell in slow collapse, their ancient runes flaring one last time before crumbling to dust.
The world was dying.
And he was already running.
He didn't know his name—none of them did. But in this life, he was strong. His body moved like instinct. His hands wove runes into the air without thinking. His voice, when he spoke, made the shattered stone pause.
He had been born into war.
Into the last breath of a crumbling realm.
And somehow…
They believed in him.
He became their champion.
They called him The Flamebound.
They gave him armor spun from dragonhide and gold-threaded bone. They gave him a sword forged from the last meteor that struck their world.
But what they gave him most…
Was hope.
