Arc I: The Rot Below the Flame Chapter 1 — The Boy Who Would Not Burn
They threw him from the sky at dawn.
Chains rattled against bare skin as Aero plummeted from the stone sky-gate, the world above fading into brilliant crimson light. The Scar opened its jaws beneath him—an endless stretch of cracked red desert, pulsing with heat and hatred. The fall wasn't far enough to kill him. That would've been too merciful.
He landed hard, spine first, on black gravel and dust-choked rock. The breath tore from his lungs. He didn't scream. Couldn't. His ribs seized. For a long time, he simply lay there, eyes open, staring at the sky as the desert sun carved lines into his vision.
No clouds. No birds. Just that same bloated, rust-colored sun… staring down like an indifferent god.
Aero rolled onto his side and vomited bile.
The ceremonial chains dug into his wrists and ankles. Blood trickled down his arms. He reached for the brand on his back—still blistering hot. It throbbed with each heartbeat.
The mark of exile.
In Fire Tongue, it read: "Flame Denied." A death sentence without the dignity of death.
His fingers trembled as he touched the skin around it. "Flameborn Aero of House Virein," he whispered bitterly, mimicking the Inquisitor's voice. "Stripped of title. Stripped of flame. Cast into the Scar to rot beneath the sun."
He sat up slowly. The horizon spun. Heat shimmered in every direction. There was no shade. No shelter. No wind.
Just emptiness.
He was fifteen. Once heir to the most powerful fireblood clan in the world. Now discarded like soot.
His lips cracked as he laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "It's funny," he said aloud, to no one. "I thought it would hurt more."
His voice died quickly in the air.
The Scar was not a place of echoes.
Hours passed.
His mouth dried out. His skin peeled beneath the sun. Time didn't move. Only the burning did.
When his legs gave out, he crawled.
When his hands blistered, he crawled on his forearms.
When even that failed, he dragged himself forward with his teeth clenched, barely breathing, not even sure why he moved anymore.
Eventually, he found a rise of crumbled black rock. He collapsed beneath it, barely conscious, lips caked with dust. He let the chains rest on the stone beside him.
And that was when he felt it.
A touch. Soft. Cool. Almost gentle.
Aero flinched.
A small root—thin as thread—emerged from a crack in the stone, reaching toward him like a child's hand. It curled slightly, as if sensing his heartbeat. Then it touched his finger.
A pulse echoed through him.
Not heat. Not pain. Something deeper.
Emotion.
He saw visions—not his, not dreams, but memories that didn't belong to him.
A pyre, broken.Ash-stained hands holding a child.A woman chained to the roots of a burning tree, laughing through her tears.
Then it was gone.
The root retreated, vanishing into the stone like it had said too much.
Aero's whole body shook. "What… was that?" he croaked.
He placed his hand against the rock. He could feel it now—faint tremors beneath the ground. Not earthquakes. Heartbeats. Rhythms. Like the earth was breathing.
Something in the wasteland had seen him. Touched him.
His eyes filled with tears, dry as they were. He didn't even know why.
He had come here expecting death.
Instead, something whispered:"Live."
The sun began to fall.
Aero didn't move. He watched shadows stretch across the blood-red horizon, watched stars blink into the sky one by one—tiny, pale things.
Night in the Scar was no mercy. The heat didn't vanish. It turned inward, like the land held its breath.
His body was covered in cuts and sand burns. His lips were cracked and bleeding. His body trembled from dehydration. But he didn't feel pain anymore.
Just… emptiness.
And beneath that, something growing.
A feeling he didn't have words for. Not fire. Not magic. Not even rage.
It was like… the world was watching him.
No.
Listening.
In the hours before dawn, he awoke with a start.
Something had wrapped around his ankle.
He panicked—thrashing, kicking, grabbing at the stone—
Then stopped.
It was a vine. Pale green. Soft.
It wasn't choking him. It wasn't pulling him down. It simply rested there, pulsing faintly.
He touched it again.
Another pulse.
And this time, Aero saw clearly.
A massive tree, hidden deep beneath the sands. Dead on the surface. But its roots still ran through the bones of the land. It had seen war. Fire. Blood. Time. Everything.
And now… it saw him.
Aero let go of the vine and sat up, slowly, reverently. His heart beat in sync with the pulse. For the first time in his life, he wasn't reaching for flame.
He was listening for something older.
Something forgotten.
"Fire dies," he whispered to the stars. "But life… grows back."
At the edge of the cliff, Aero stood again.
The boy they had cast out.
The boy who had failed the Trial of Flame.
The boy with no magic left.
And as the wind began to rise, carrying dust and root-fragrance across the wasteland, Aero whispered to the pulse beneath the earth:
"I'm not done yet."
And for the first time, the Scar whispered back.