Ash and the Dawn
The world was finished.
But morning still arrived.
It crawled over the edge of the world, slow and mean, like a hunter. A huge light of gold and red took the night away. It promised a new day, but it only showed a huge, quiet wreck.
Kaen sat leaned against the burnt wood of his old house. The morning light made the sad scene look like fake hope. Black, broken wood beams stood around him like the bones of a giant dead thing, making soft groaning sounds in the wind that smelled of fire dust and the end.
His hands pushed into the ground. His fingers sank into dust that just fell apart. It wasn't just dirt. It was everything.
His mother's loom dust, black soot from the fire, the last bits of his sisters' laughter on the wind—all turned into fine, gray powder.
He looked at his hands, at the tough skin his father taught him to get, now covered in his family's dust. He felt nothing. Not the sharp cold, not the sun's weak heat.
All he smelled was the thick, choking bad smell that stayed. Smoke and blood. It filled his lungs with every small breath.
He looked at the ground. At the black dirt that was his door, where his sisters, Lyra and Seyra, used to wait. He could almost hear them.
"Kaen, hurry! You promised to take us to the market!" Lyra's voice, loud and bossy.
"Race you there!" Seyra's, always fast to challenge.
Their laughter was still loud in his ears, bright and mocking. A sound from a dead world. He closed his eyes tight, trying to push away their faces.
He saw Lyra's braid, the little red ribbon she kept. He saw Seyra's wild, dark curls, and the missing front tooth that made her smile special.
But the laughter was gone.
So was his brother, Arlen's, happy grin, stuck in memory. Arlen, full of trouble and loyalty, who always had his back. Arlen, who taught him to skip stones, and who stood in front of him with an axe the night the sky bled fire.
So was his mother's warmth, her hands rough but soft when she touched his hair. Her voice was a low, comforting hum that was always part of his world. Now it was just a quiet ghost sound.
All of it—eaten by fire. All of them—gone.
He should have cried. He should have screamed. He should have cursed the sky for getting bright.
The Nightfall was not a normal storm or attack. It was pure, strange evil. Fire fell from the sky itself, making the world an oven.
Instead—nothing.
His tears dried into stiff, crusty lines on his cheeks. His throat was sore, not from crying, but from the sharp smoke.
His body shook, not from cold, but from something deep and huge, pressing down until every heart beat felt like falling apart. A pressure that felt like it would turn him into ash.
The words came back, mean and heavy:
I couldn't protect them. I wasn't strong enough.
And under them, his mother's last small sound stuck to him, thin as glass
"You will always be… my ember."
An ember. A flame.
---
The Spark
He looked at his hands, covered in the dust of his life. It was a cruel joke. What little fire could be left, what tiny spark, when everything that fed it was buried in ash? His family, his home, his reason for living—all were fuel for a fire that left only ruins. He was just burnt up stuff, a piece of nothing.
But still—something moved. Weak. Small. But alive.
It wasn't hope yet. It was saying "No." A fight born from his deepest sadness. A spark that said, No. Not yet. I am not just dust.
Kaen made fists with his hands, digging into the ash. Slowly, with pain, he pushed himself up. His muscles screamed. His chest burned from more than just the smoke. His legs shook under his weight, threatening to fall. But he stood.
He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
He only knew one thing
He could not stay here.
---
The Ruined City
The city outside looked different.
The first sun rays cut through the smoke, painting the ruins red and gold. Broken roofs caught the light, glowing like burnt wood even as the homes below were quiet and dead. It was a beautiful morning over a graveyard, and Kaen felt it was worse than the dark night.
Orvale was gone. His home, his city, his world.
The streets that were once loud with people—merchants shouting, children running, the baker calling "Fresh bread!"—were destroyed. The smooth street stones were now covered with trash and dead bodies.
Only bodies were left.
Kaen's boots made a crunching sound on the stone, a loud noise in the terrible quiet. He walked, alone, in a land of the dead. He looked at the ground, trying not to look. He passed the baker's shop and saw the baker, his apron stained red. He passed the toy maker's stand, and the broken toys showed the lives that were put out.
There was the blacksmith, a strong man who had taught Kaen to hit harder. He was a dark shape now, his hammer next to him. There was the old woman who gave him apples. Her basket was spilled out. There were the children, whose eyes were now still, looking forever up at the sky that hurt them.
The silence was too much. It felt like a crushing weight.
---
The Whispers
But wait—it wasn't silent.
As he walked, his broken mind started playing tricks. Whispers started at the edge of his hearing. They were soft at first, but with each step, they got clearer.
"Help me…." a small child's voice.
"Don't leave us…." a mother's fast, scared sound.
"…Kaen…." a whisper of his name, a soft, dying request.
His chest got tight. His fists shook. He turned fast, looking into dark corners. Shadows seemed to move. Hands seemed to reach from the rubble. He stumbled forward, a desperate, sad hope starting in his heart.
He rushed toward a sound, only to find bodies cold and still. A pile of bricks. Nothing.
Again. And again. Hope flared like fire. Silence crushed it to ash.
The whispers weren't real. They were pieces of the screams from the Nightfall, stuck in his mind. The guilt, the fear, the sadness—it was making him hear the dead. He couldn't stop them.
---
Riku
One name kept him steady in the chaos.
Riku.
His best friend. The girl who told him off for being careless, whose laugh was bright and clear like a silver bell. He was always a shadow to her sun.
Since she was not out there, he realized she must have gone to his house.
Was she alive?
He didn't know. He had to see her. He had to know.
If he lost her too—the thought was a knife in his stomach. Riku lived in the upper part of the city, farther from the worst spot. There was a small, desperate chance she was okay. He held onto that idea.
His mind took him back. Not to the fire, but to a time before. The summer festival, two years ago.
Lanterns floating up, soft light against the night. The air smelled of sweet food. Music played. Riku was beside him, looking up, her eyes wide.
"They say each lantern carries a wish," she told him. "What did you wish for, Kaen?"
He didn't answer. He was too shy.
But he remembered the wish now. It was simple
That he would always be able to protect her.
The memory was a fresh, hot pain. He failed.
He couldn't save anyone.
He pushed the memory away. He had to find Riku. The only thing that mattered was her.
He started to run faster.
---
The Light
And then he stopped. Something told him to.
Far down a ruined street, where trash was piled high, something glowed.
Kaen's heart jumped in his chest like a fast bird.
It wasn't the hot orange of fire. It wasn't the red of the dawn.
This was different.
Soft. Pale. Bright. A milky white, with a faint blue in the middle.
Pulsing, like a heartbeat. A slow, steady rhythm that hummed.
He blinked, thinking it would disappear. But it didn't.
It waited. It pulsed. It called to him.
Pulled by something he couldn't see, Kaen moved. His boots crunched over the trash. His eyes stayed on the glow, a light in the darkness.
And then—he saw it.
The Stone.
It sat among the rubble, half-hidden. No bigger than his hand. Smooth, a little clear, like sea glass. It looked like a piece of the night sky.
Inside, light moved—like liquid fire, alive, but not burning. A small, perfect storm of energy. It pulsed, gentle and rhythmic.
Steady. Alive.
Kaen bent down. His hands shook. The dead whispers were silent now. He reached out a careful hand.
What if it burns me? What if it vanishes?
But something inside pushed him forward.
This was a promise.
He reached. His dirty fingers touched the stone.
Warmth spread instantly, up his arm, and into his chest.
Not the mean heat of fire.
Warmth like a winter fireplace. Warmth like his mother's hug.
Kaen gasped.
The ember inside him moved. The tiny, defiant spark that made him stand up. It flared, not with pain, but with a deep, loud sound. The stone was alive. It matched something deep inside him, past the sadness and failure.
His chest felt easier. The pressure lessened. He wasn't choking anymore.
His fingers closed around the stone. The warmth went into him, steady, pushing back the cold. A strong energy flooded his body. The dead whispers moved away.
In that warmth, he thought he heard a voice, old and living.
"Live, Kaen."
Tears, not from sadness, but from feeling chosen, filled his eyes. He held the stone tight to his chest. He didn't care what it was.
The stone was not normal. And it had chosen him.
---
The Vow
Forward.
Kaen stood up.
The dawn was brighter now, gold spilling across the ruined city. Smoke floated up like freed spirits.
A graveyard, painted in light too beautiful for sadness.
He looked down at the stone. Its glow would not fade. It was more than a stone. It was a promise. A beacon.
He held it to his chest. Its warmth was a steady beat with his heart. He drew a steady breath that didn't burn his lungs with the memory of smoke.
His eyes looked toward where Riku lived. The path was still full of danger and dead bodies, but the fear was gone. A fierce goal took its place.
His sadness stayed, but a new, strong fire flowed through him.
With each move, the ember inside him stirred. It was no longer a weak flicker. It was a spark, fed by the stone's energy.
Weak. Small.
But alive.
As he walked, Kaen made a promise. Not to protect, for he had failed. A vow to act.
If fate left him alive, if this strange stone chose him, he would not waste it. He would find Riku. He would find out why Orvale fell, why the fire came.
And if the world wanted fire—
Then he would burn.