The night was wrong.
Elaric Voss woke with smoke on his tongue.
Crackle.
Hiss.
Fire was eating the house.
For a breath, he didn't move. The straw mattress beneath him had already begun to warm, heat seeping through in a way no hearth ever should. His thoughts tangled—twelve years old in this fragile body, yet burdened with memories that did not belong to it. A twenty-eight-year-old man's life. Another world. Another ending.
This isn't a dream.
Then the screaming began.
"—AAAH—!"
Elaric jerked upright.
Orange light flooded the cramped room he shared with his parents, flames crawling along the beams of the thatched roof like living serpents. Shadows danced madly against the walls. The air pressed against his skin—thick, suffocating, whispering as it burned.
Not the honest heat of a fireplace.
Something hungry.
"Mother!" His voice cracked.
No answer.
From the adjoining room came only a wet, rattling cough—
—and then nothing.
His bare feet hit the floor.
Sizzle.
Pain lanced up his soles, but he barely felt it. He snatched the woolen blanket and beat at the flames creeping toward him.
Useless.
The fire leapt over the cloth as though offended.
Heart hammering, Elaric lunged for the door.
The iron latch branded his palm.
SSSS—!
He screamed but tore it open anyway, stumbling into the narrow corridor that served as both kitchen and living space.
And froze.
His father lay near the hearth, sprawled on his back. His chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic gasps. A long wound gaped across his throat—edges blackened, sealed by fire rather than steel.
His mother knelt beside him.
Her hands were pressed to the wound, fingers slick with blood that refused to stop flowing. Her eyes—wide, desperate—found Elaric's.
For one heartbeat, the world stilled.
"Run," she rasped. "The circle—don't let them—"
A shadow fell over her.
The heat dimmed.
A figure stood in the open doorway.
Tall. Cloaked in ragged black. The village beyond burned behind it, Emberfall reduced to a roaring sea of flame. In its gloved hand hung a lantern of dark bronze, glass panels stained crimson.
Inside it burned a flame that should not exist.
No heat.
Yet its light made Elaric's eyes ache, as though staring directly into the sun.
The figure stepped forward.
The floorboards beneath its feet blackened and curled—though no fire touched them.
Under the hood there was nothing.
No face.
No eyes.
Only absence.
"Elaric Voss," it said, voice dry as wind through dead leaves.
"The vessel awakens."
Cold flooded his bones.
Elaric backed away until his shoulders struck the wall. The fire at his back felt distant compared to the terror coiling in his chest.
"Who are you?" he demanded. His voice sounded small. "What do you want?"
The figure tilted its head.
"Merely a herald."
"The ember has chosen you."
"The pathways remember."
Outside, the screaming had stopped.
Too suddenly.
Through the doorway, Elaric glimpsed the village square.
Bodies.
Neighbors he had known his entire life lay arranged with eerie precision—faces turned skyward, mouths slack. Their skin had gone ash-gray. Where their eyes should have been burned two dull, glowing coals.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
Only silence.
They lay in a perfect circle around the ancient standing stone—the one the elders claimed predated the Fourth Epoch.
A ritual.
The cloaked figure raised the lantern.
The flame inside writhed, reshaping itself into symbols that hurt to look at directly—
twisting doors opening onto nothing,
fools dancing at the edge of precipices,
threads of fate snapping—then knotting themselves into impossible forms.
"You know this world," the figure said calmly.
"You have read of it in stories."
Beyonders.
Sequences.
Gods—and madness.
"The tale you know ended too neatly," it continued.
"The Fool ascended. The barriers held. Humanity was saved."
Another step.
"Endings are illusions. Fate is a circle."
"And every circle has a weak point."
A pause.
"A dying ember… waiting to be rekindled."
Elaric's thoughts screamed.
Lord of Mysteries.
He remembered it clearly. The novel he'd finished years ago in another life. Klein Moretti. The long climb. The ascension. The apocalypse averted.
This was 1362.
Four years after the Fool's rise.
An age of fragile calm.
And calm—he now understood—was a lie.
"I won't drink your potion," Elaric spat, pressing himself against the wall. "I'm not playing your game."
The figure laughed.
Riiip—
Like parchment tearing.
"There is no potion."
"No formula."
"Only the ember itself."
The lantern flared.
The flame surged outward—not fire, but liquid light. Crimson and gold threaded with black. It crossed the distance in an instant.
Too fast.
Elaric threw up his arms—
—but it did not burn him.
It poured into his mouth, down his throat, and settled behind his sternum like a coal fresh from the forge.
Then—
PAIN.
Not the pain of flesh burning.
Something deeper.
Every nerve ignited.
Visions tore through him—
A man in a top hat laughing atop a crumbling tower.
Stars screaming as barriers shattered.
A cocoon of fog and history drifting through the void—
sleeping.
The Fool.
And through it all—
A single dying spark.
Lost.
Drifting.
Searching for a hearth.
SNAP.
The visions collapsed.
Ash coated his tongue.
A name echoed in his mind.
Beyonder Characteristic Acquired
Sequence 9 — Ember Seer
Pathway: Ember of Fate (Variant / Fragmented)
The words were not spoken.
They existed.
Abilities:
Fate Glimpse: Witness brief fragments of possible futures tied to dying flames—lives, hopes, or destinies on the verge of extinction. Each use consumes a portion of the ember's remaining life.
Spark Ignition: Kindle small, precise flames capable of burning through minor illusions, seals, or deceptions. Leaves no heat scars upon the physical world.
Ashen Whispers: Hear faint echoes from things that have recently burned—objects, memories, or lives.
Primary Accommodation Requirement:
Preserve dying embers. Never allow a flame that still flickers to be fully extinguished—
even when mercy demands it.
Risk of Loss of Control:
If the ember burns too low, the host calcifies into lifeless ash.
If it burns too brightly, the host is consumed from within.
Elaric collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The pain ebbed, leaving behind a hollow warmth in his chest.
When he looked up—
The cloaked figure was gone.
Only a single sheet of parchment lay upon the scorched floor.
He crawled forward, fingers trembling as he picked it up.
The ink was still wet.
It smelled faintly of smoke.
The Curtained One watches.
The cycle turns anew.
Seek the Tarot Gathering in Trier.
Or burn out alone.
Outside, dawn bled weak gray across the horizon. The fires of Emberfall had already begun to die, leaving smoldering ruins—and forty-three pairs of empty eye sockets staring sightlessly at the sky.
Elaric stood amid the ashes of the only home he had known in this life.
Twelve years old.
Alone.
Carrying something that should not exist.
The ember in his chest pulsed once.
Thump.
Curious.
Almost gentle.
"I don't know what you are," he whispered. "But I'm not your kindling."
Tiny sparks danced between his fingers before fading.
Far away, church bells began to toll—answering the column of smoke rising into the morning sky.
Elaric turned his back on the ruins and walked into the mist-shrouded highlands.
Behind him—
Crack.
The ancient standing stone split down the middle, a thin line of crimson light glowing within.
The ember had found its vessel.
And fate—
after years of silence—
had begun to burn again.