The Last Ember of Avelor
Ashen Riders," came a voice, dry as winter bark.
Kael jolted upright. A figure stepped from the trees: a woman cloaked in moss and feathers, her eyes like wet amber. She carried a gnarled staff carved with runes that shimmered faintly.
"Who are you?" Kael asked, standing shakily.
"I am Maeryn. Witch of the Mire. Seer of what was lost." She tilted her head. "And you, child, are Kindled."
"I don't know what that means," Kael said.
"It means the Ember has touched you. Chosen you." She pointed at the shard. "That piece of the Elder Tree did not find you by accident."
Kael frowned. "What do I do with it?"
Maeryn knelt before him and placed her hand over his.
"You carry the last hope of Avelor. But fire unmastered consumes. You must learn to bear it—or it will burn you hollow."
The shard flared between them, and Kael felt a rush of memories not his own—dragons circling a golden spire, a tower of light cracking in darkness, and a girl with silver eyes weeping over a ruined crown.
Maeryn withdrew. "You must go north. To the Shattered Peaks. There lies the Vault of Flame—and the answers you seek."
"But the riders—"
"They hunt you because they fear what you could become," she said. "And because they serve the Hollow One, who shattered the Ember long ago."
Kael swallowed hard. "I'm just a blacksmith's boy."
"Not anymore," Maeryn said. "You're a flame in the dark. And the dark is waking."
She handed him a small satchel of herbs and a rune-carved pendant. "This will mask your spark. For a time."
As dawn broke over the Ashenwood, Kael turned his back on everything he had known, the shard warm against his chest.
The road ahead was long.
And fire had only just returned to the world.