A week had passed since Kieran first etched his will into flame. His days had settled into a strict rhythm of training, study, and quiet purpose. The storm rolled in from the east at dusk, dragging with it an unnatural silence. The valley below the keep darkened as lightning flickered beyond the hills. Ashvale Hold, ancient and weary, stood against the twilight like a defiant old soldier.
Kieran stood in the inner courtyard, sword in hand, working through the fifth sequence of the Flamewake Form. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath fogging in the cooling air. His father's voice echoed in his memory—Reset your stance, don't chase the blade. He repeated the motion, smoother this time, more precise.
Maera appeared at the archway. Her expression was unreadable.
"Inside. Now."
Kieran frowned, lowering his sword. "I haven't finished—"
"Now, Kieran."
The urgency in her voice left no room for argument.
He followed her through the corridor, boots slapping the stone floor. Servants moved quickly, shuttering windows, snuffing candles. A few looked frightened.
Lord Caelum stood in the great hall, fully armored. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, expression grim. The map table was cleared but for a single black-sealed letter.
"Raiders," he said without preamble. "Not bandits—professionals. Moving fast. Well-armed."
Kieran felt his heart lurch.
"Why would they come here? We have nothing."
"Exactly," Caelum replied. "Which means they're not here for gold."
Maera's face darkened. "They mean to finish what history started. Wipe us out for good."
A sharp horn blast echoed from the watchtower. Too close.
"Maera, get him to the escape tunnel. Take Ysolde and whoever else you can find. Get to Greystead and send word to Arkwyn," Caelum ordered.
"Father—"
"You are the last heir, Kieran. You carry this house now. GO."
Kieran tried to speak, but Maera grabbed his arm. "No time. We move."
They ran. Down into the servants' corridors, through kitchens and darkened storage halls. Smoke began to filter in through the stones. Screams echoed from above. A deafening boom shook the walls, and dust rained down from the ceiling.
"Move faster!" Maera shouted, drawing a dagger as they reached a junction. She turned her head sharply. "They're inside."
A clash of steel rang out just down the hall. The group ducked into a side passage. Kieran could hear the footfalls now—heavy, fast, relentless. Maera pulled a hidden lever in the wall and shoved him through the opening.
The tunnel was narrow, damp, and choking with the scent of mildew. Ysolde joined them seconds later, face pale, clutching a small satchel to her chest.
Behind them, a servant screamed.
They moved in silence. The tunnel sloped downward, torchlight fading until they were swallowed by dark. Only the scrape of boots and Kieran's ragged breathing marked their passage.
Somewhere above, the keep groaned. Then the roar of collapsing stone.
The escape tunnel opened out beneath a moss-covered hill at the edge of the woods. Rain misted the air. Kieran turned just in time to see flames burst from a tower window. The explosion bloomed like a dying star—fierce, sudden, and final. His chest tightened, a cry rising in his throat but catching before it could escape. That was his father's tower. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees in the wet grass, fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms.
"No... no, no, no," he muttered, voice cracking. His breath came in ragged gasps as his vision blurred. The thought of his father—still inside, still fighting—burned through him like molten iron. He wanted to run back, to charge into the fire, to scream until the sky split open.
But he didn't. He couldn't. His father had made his choice.
And now he had to live with it.
Black banners fluttered in the smoke—no heraldry he recognized.
Kieran stood silent as the others wept. Silent tears traced paths down his cheeks, unnoticed in the misting rain. He made no sound, but each drop burned hotter than the storm overhead.
"From Ash…" he whispered, the words choking in his throat.
A pause.
He looked toward the rising sun.
"…Fire."
He could no longer cry.
Not yet.
They stayed hidden beneath the woods as the night stretched long and cruel. Kieran refused to move until the last black banner had disappeared beyond the hills and the fire's glow dulled to smoldering embers. When Maera urged them to continue on to Greystead, Kieran stood firm.
"I'm going back," he said.
"It's not safe—"
"Then stay hidden. Both of you. Wait for me."
Ysolde tried to protest, but Maera met his eyes and knew there would be no changing his mind. She gave a stiff nod. "One hour, no more. Then we go."
Kieran turned and walked alone into the blackened heart of Ashveil.
The once-familiar path back to the hold was unrecognizable. Trees scorched. Stones cracked. The walls of the keep lay in ruin, great chunks of masonry strewn like bones of a broken beast. Smoke still curled from the wreckage. The scent of ash and blood filled the air.
He picked his way through the rubble, heart hammering, eyes scanning for movement—for a miracle. But there was no sign of his father. No sound but the wind whispering through the dead.
Eventually, his steps carried him to what remained of the central courtyard. There, half-buried beneath charred debris and shattered tile, he found it: the old family stone. Blackened but intact, the words still carved deep:
From Ash, Fire.
He stared. And then he saw it again—just above the period at the end of the final word.
A mark. Faint. Carved deliberately. Not a flaw in the rock.
It looked like the beginning of something more.
A colon?
His breath caught. He reached out and ran his fingers over the groove.
He had always felt there was more to the saying. And now, here it was—something hidden in plain sight.