SFX:Crackle.Pop.Hiss—
The night was wrong.
Elaric Voss awoke with the taste of smoke coating his tongue and the sound of fire chewing through wood. For several heartbeats, he did not move. The straw mattress beneath him radiated warmth—too warm. His thoughts drifted sluggishly, tangled between two lives.
Twelve years old.
Yet burdened with memories of being twenty-eight, from a world that should not exist here.
Then—
A scream.
It tore through the darkness like a knife.
Elaric jolted upright.
Orange light pulsed wildly across the low ceiling. Flames crawled along the thatched roof, racing over wooden beams like living veins. Heat pressed against his skin, heavy and suffocating—but it was not the familiar warmth of a hearth.
This fire was hungry.
It whispered.
"Mother!" he shouted, his voice cracking mid-word.
No answer.
Only a wet, choking cough from the adjoining room—cut short far too quickly.
His bare feet slapped against the floor as he stumbled up. The boards burned his soles. He seized the woolen blanket and swung it at the encroaching flames.
SFX:Fwoom—
The fire leapt over the cloth, recoiling as though insulted.
His breath hitched.
The door.
He lunged forward. The iron latch scorched his palm—
SFX:Sizzle—
—but pain barely registered as he tore it open and spilled into the narrow corridor that served as both kitchen and living space.
He froze.
His father lay sprawled near the hearth. His chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow jerks. A long wound gaped across his throat—edges blackened, sealed by fire rather than steel.
His mother knelt beside him, hands pressed desperately to the injury.
Blood leaked between her fingers.
Her eyes met Elaric's.
Wide.
Terrified.
Already hollowing.
"Run," she rasped. "The circle—don't let them—"
A shadow fell across her.
Someone stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Cloaked in ragged black.
The village beyond burned behind it, flames roaring into the night sky.
In its gloved hand hung a lantern of dark bronze. The glass panels were stained crimson, and within burned a flame that defied reason—cold, soundless, and unbearably bright. Its light stabbed into Elaric's eyes, making his vision swim, as though he were staring directly at the sun.
The figure stepped inside.
Beneath the hood—nothing.
No face.
No eyes.
Only an absence that swallowed light.
"Elaric Voss," it said.
Its voice sounded like wind dragging itself through a graveyard of dead leaves.
"The vessel awakens."
Cold seeped into his bones.
"Who are you?" Elaric demanded, backing away until the wall pressed hard against his shoulders. "What do you want?"
The figure tilted its head.
"I am a herald. Nothing more."
A pause.
"The ember has chosen you. The pathways remember."
Outside, the screaming had stopped.
The village of Emberfall—forty-three souls nestled in the misty highlands of northern Loen—had fallen silent.
Through the open doorway, Elaric glimpsed the square.
Bodies lay neatly arranged around the ancient standing stone. Neighbors. Friends. Faces turned skyward.
Their eyes were gone.
Not gouged out.
Not bleeding.
Burned away—replaced by faintly glowing embers.
No blood.
No struggle.
Only ash-gray skin and perfect stillness.
A ritual.
The cloaked figure raised its lantern.
The flame within writhed, twisting into symbols that hurt to perceive directly—doors opening onto nothing, fools laughing at the edge of bottomless precipices, threads of fate snapping… then knotting themselves back together.
"You know this world," the herald said calmly. "You have read of it. Beyonders. Sequences. Gods and madness."
Step.
The floorboards beneath its feet blackened and curled, though no heat touched them.
"The story you knew ended neatly," it continued. "The Fool ascended. The barriers held. Humanity was saved."
Another step.
"Endings are illusions. Fate is a circle."
Its voice deepened.
"And every circle has a weak point."
Elaric's heart pounded.
This was impossible.
He remembered the novel clearly—Lord of the Mysteries. Klein Moretti's ascent. The apocalypse delayed. The fragile calm afterward.
This year was 1362.
Four years after the Fool's ascension.
The so-called peaceful era.
"I won't drink your potion," Elaric spat. "I'm not playing your game."
The figure laughed.
Rrrrip—
Like parchment tearing.
"There is no potion," it replied softly. "Only the ember."
The lantern flared.
The flame surged outward—not fire, but liquid light, crimson and gold threaded with black. It crossed the distance instantly.
Elaric raised his arms—
Too late.
The light poured into his mouth, down his throat, settling behind his sternum like a coal ripped from a forge.
Boom.
Pain exploded through him.
Not the agony of burning flesh—but something far worse.
Visions tore through his mind.
A man in a top hat laughed atop a collapsing tower.
Stars screamed as ancient barriers shattered.
A cocoon of fog and history pulsed in the void—sleeping.
The Fool.
And drifting through it all—
A single dying spark.
Lost.
Searching.
Hungry.
The visions snapped shut.
Ash coated his tongue.
A voice—not spoken, but etched into his mind—resounded with dreadful clarity.
Beyonder Characteristic Acquired
Sequence 9 — Ember Seer
Pathway: Ember of Fate (Variant / Fragmented)
Abilities:
Fate Glimpse: Perceive fragments of futures bound to dying flames—lives, hopes, destinies on the verge of extinction. Each use consumes the ember's remaining life.
Spark Ignition: Kindle precise, heatless flames capable of burning through minor illusions, seals, and deceptions.
Ashen Whispers: Hear echoes from things recently burned—objects, memories, or lives.
Primary Accommodation Requirement:
Preserve dying embers. Never allow a flame that still flickers to be fully extinguished.
Risk of Loss of Control:
If the ember dims—calcification into lifeless ash.
If it burns too brightly—self-immolation from within.
Elaric collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The pain faded, leaving a hollow warmth pulsing in his chest.
When he looked up—
The herald was gone.
Only a single sheet of parchment lay upon the scorched floorboards, fluttering softly.
He crawled forward and picked it up.
The ink was still wet.
It smelled of smoke.
The Curtained One watches.
The cycle turns anew.
Seek the Tarot Gathering in Trier.
Or burn out alone.
Dawn bled gray across the horizon.
The fires of Emberfall had begun to die, leaving smoldering ruins—and forty-three pairs of empty eye sockets staring at the sky.
Elaric stood amid the ashes of his home.
Twelve years old.
Alone.
Carrying something that should not exist.
The ember in his chest pulsed once.
Curious.
Almost gentle.
Tiny sparks danced between his fingers before fading.
"I don't know what you are," he whispered. "But I'm not your kindling."
Far away, church bells began to toll.
SFX:Dong.Dong.
Elaric turned and walked into the mist-shrouded highlands.
Behind him, the standing stone cracked—
SFX:Crk—
A thin line of crimson light glowed in its heart.
The ember had found its vessel.
And fate, after years of silence, had begun to burn again.