The rooster crowed with the pride of a king commanding an empire, which was impressive considering he ruled only a rickety fence post and three anxious hens. Edrik Grayshore groaned at the familiar sound and briefly considered inventing breakfast that involved roasted rooster. Instead, he flung off his blanket, sending up a puff of dust and straw from the loft floor. Morning light bled through the shutters, turning the humble farmhouse into a glowing lantern amidst the misty dawn.
At seventeen, Edrik was already a master of avoiding responsibility. His hair—brown, unruly, and structurally rebellious—sprouted in directions that suggested it had offended a barber years ago and never recovered. His eyes, sea-storm gray, were sharp and curious, always hunting mischief or secrets. Neither were in short supply in Dunwheat, a backwater farming village where every second child dreamt of adventure yet rarely strayed farther than the next field.
Pulling on scuffed boots, he clambered down the ladder to the kitchen. Mara, his mother, stirred a pot over the fire like she hoped it would confess its crimes. "You're late," she scolded without turning.
Edrik tied his belt and attempted a charming smile. "Technically, I'm early for tomorrow."
Her spoon paused. "Technically, I can throw you at the pigs."
To be fair, the pigs would probably refuse. Edrik gulped the porridge she thrust at him and escaped outside before she could remember tasks like mucking stalls or cleaning gutters. Morning dew clung to the grass, and the fields stretched in every direction like a patchwork quilt made by someone with strong opinions and poor stitching skills. The sun peered over the eastern hills, casting long shadows from the ancient forest that bordered Dunwheat—the Grimwood, a place children were warned never to enter unless they fancied being eaten, cursed, or mildly inconvenienced by mysterious forces.
Naturally, Edrik headed straight toward it.
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He didn't plan to risk his life before breakfast. In fact, he simply wanted to avoid hauling cabbage crates. Unfortunately, that required hiding somewhere his mother wouldn't look. The Grimwood qualified. Giant twisted trees knotted together overhead, branches creeping like skeletal fingers. The air smelled of moss and secrets.
"This is definitely a smart idea," Edrik muttered, stepping over a fallen log. A crow cawed disapprovingly from above, clearly writing a bad review.
As he wandered deeper, he noticed an odd shimmer in the air—like heat on stone, though the forest was cool. He reached out, curious, and the shimmering gathered into a faint symbol glimmering gold against the greenery. Six points spiraling outward. It vanished the moment he blinked.
"What in thunder was that?"
He inched forward until his boot struck something solid. At his feet lay a stone half-buried under leaves, carved with strange runes worn down by age. He brushed dirt aside with shaking fingers. The carvings pulsed with faint light, humming beneath his fingertips.
He swallowed. "I should definitely turn around."
Instead—because apparently he had the survival instincts of a drunk goat—he pressed his palm against the stone. Power jolted up his arm like lightning and thunder rolled overhead though the sky remained blue. Images exploded in his mind: a burning throne room, a crown wreathed in fire, a cloaked figure raising a sword of pure flame. Then—most terrifying of all—a face that looked like his.
Edrik yelped and fell backward. The vision vanished like smoke. He stared at his trembling hands. He had never touched magic. Magic was forbidden—outlawed since the Ember War twenty years ago, when the last king unleashed wildfire sorcery that destroyed half the kingdom. Anyone caught practicing was executed.
"I'm hallucinating," he whispered. "That porridge was suspicious."
Branches snapped behind him. His heart somersaulted. He spun—only to find Old Man Torren, the village drunk, squinting from behind a beard that deserved its own postal address.
"You see it too," Torren rasped.
Edrik scrambled up. "See what?"
Torren jabbed a crooked finger at the stone. "The Embermark. Royal blood calls to fire."
Royal blood? Edrik laughed nervously. "I'm a farmer. The only royal thing I've touched is a tax collector's patience."
Torren's eyes, surprisingly sharp, scanned him head to toe. "Your mother ever tell you where you came from, boy?"
Edrik hesitated. Mara always ducked questions about his birth father. She claimed he was "no one worth mentioning," usually in a tone that suggested violence was worth mentioning.
"A king will return," Torren whispered, voice trembling not from drink, but certainty. "Born from ash. Marked by flame."
"Right," Edrik said, edging away. "Well, that's very poetically terrifying. I am going to go not be here now."
He sprinted toward the village. Behind him, Torren called, "Fire follows you, boy! Tell no one—the Emberwatch are hungry for blood!"
---
By the time the rooftops of Dunwheat appeared, Edrik had convinced himself he imagined everything. Magic wasn't real—well, it had been real, but not anymore. The High Council banned it two decades earlier after King Aldric the Emberborn drowned the capital in inferno. Wizards were hunted to extinction. Magic stones didn't hum. Visions didn't appear. That was ridiculous. Completely insane.
He collided with a figure rounding a corner and yelped as they both tumbled into the dirt. Cabbages rained down.
"Mother of goats!" shouted Lena Broadfoot, the baker's daughter. Flour clung to her braids and cheeks like she'd lost an argument with a pastry. "Edrik! My cabbages!"
"Sorry! Very sorry!" he sputtered, scooping vegetables and attempting to sound like someone who hadn't just triggered ancient sorcery in the woods. "Emergency jogging."
She narrowed suspicious eyes. "Jogging from what?"
"Fitness. I'm extremely healthy." His voice cracked.
Lena stared for a long moment, then snorted. "You're as healthy as a drowned turnip. Help me carry these."
As they hauled the battered produce toward the bakery, Edrik's thoughts churned faster than the dough in Lena's kneading trough. If what he saw was real—if—then he needed answers. Starting with his mother. Because Mara always looked a little guilty whenever fires lit the sky too bright.
Inside the bakery, warmth and bread fragrance wrapped around him like a comforting lie. Edrik helped stack crates while Lena's father bellowed orders and flung dough with the enthusiasm of a man fighting bread-based warfare. Edrik tried to focus, but Torren's words echoed in his skull: Royal blood. Fire follows you.
Finally, he excused himself and hurried home. Mara was outside wrapping cheese in cloth at the table. She glanced up and froze when she saw his face. "What's happened?"
"Nothing," Edrik blurted. Too fast.
She wiped her hands slowly. "You found it."
His stomach dropped. "Found… what?"
"The Emberstone," she whispered. "I prayed it would never call to you."
Dark clouds seemed to gather without warning. Edrik stared, numb. "So it's true? Magic? Royal blood? Me?"
Mara's shoulders sagged, as if she had carried this secret for years and could finally set it down. "Your name isn't Grayshore. You were born Edrik Emberhart…the last son of King Aldric, hidden after the war."
He swayed as if struck. His mouth opened and closed like a stunned fish.
"I… I'm a prince?"
"A wanted prince," she said, eyes fierce with fear and love. "The Emberwatch still scour the land for any trace of your bloodline. If they find you, they will burn this village to ashes."
Suddenly the fields felt smaller, the sky lower, the air thinner. All his life he had dreamed of adventure—never imagining it might actually find him, and be terrifying.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
Mara pressed a bundle into his hands: a worn cloak, a dagger, and a signet ring carved with the same six-pointed symbol he saw on the stone. "Run."
"Run where?"
"Anywhere the throne's shadow can't reach… until you are ready to reclaim it."
Hooves thundered in the distance. Dust clouded the road as dark-armored riders appeared—scarlet cloaks snapping, helms bearing the mark of flame.
"The Emberwatch," Mara hissed. "Go!"
Heart exploding, Edrik fled toward the Grimwood once more, destiny nipping at his heels. Behind him, his mother turned to face the riders with nothing but a kitchen knife and a mother's fury. He didn't look back—because if he did, he might never stop.
As he vanished among the twisted trees, thunder growled overhead. Somewhere deep in the wood, ancient magic stirred…waiting for its prince to awaken.
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