The wind blew hard that day in Shadowgleam, carrying a sharp smell of ashes and rusted metal. Vren Tarsys adjusted his worn-out cloak, a tattered gray piece of fabric he had scavenged from the ruins of an old house.
He moved carefully through the wreckage, his boots crunching on the ash-covered ground.
Around him, the remains of a once-grand city stood like skeletons: broken towers, collapsed walls, and empty windows that seemed to watch him. Shadowgleam was nothing more than a graveyard of stone, ravaged by the magical fires of the Ash Lords.
Vren, 22 years old, was an Outcast, one of those wretched souls born without the slightest spark of Ashmagic. In the world of Cinderfall, where magic was born from burned ashes, Outcasts like him were worthless.
They lived in the slums, surviving by scavenging debris or begging. Vren, however, preferred to rummage through the ruins. It was dangerous—Ash Hunters prowled to catch intruders—but it beat starving under a cracked dome.
That morning, he was after something special. A rumor had spread among the scavengers: a collapsed tower deep in Shadowgleam hid a forgotten treasure. Vren didn't believe in fairy tales, but he needed money.
The Burn, a disease that ate away at Outcasts due to magical residue, had started to scorch his skin. His hands trembled slightly, and a suspicious redness spread across his left arm. He didn't have much time.
He finally reached the tower. It was massive, even half-destroyed. Its black stone walls were covered in cracks, and part of the roof had caved in, revealing a spiral staircase that plunged into darkness. Vren pulled out a makeshift lamp—a metal box with a flickering flame—and descended. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of ancient smoke. Each step creaked under his feet.
At the bottom, he found a round room. Debris littered the floor: shards of glass, rusted old tools, and a thin layer of silvery ashes that glowed faintly.
Vren crouched and ran his hand through the dust. It was soft, almost warm. He frowned. The ashes of Shadowgleam were famous for their silvery hue, a mystery even the Ash Lords couldn't explain. Some said they came from an even older city, burned before the Lords took power.
Suddenly, a strange sound made him jump. A song. Faint, almost inaudible, like a whisper carried by the wind. Vren turned his head, searching for the source. Nothing. Just the ashes shimmering under his lamp.
He reached out to touch them again, and the song grew clearer. Voices—dozens of voices—sang in harmony. They spoke of fire, loss, and a broken hope. Vren's heart raced. Was it an illusion? The Burn playing tricks on him?
He scooped up a handful of ashes and squeezed them in his hand. To his surprise, they didn't scatter. They stayed together, forming a small ball that pulsed gently, as if alive.
The song grew louder, and a blurry image flashed in his mind: a figure engulfed in flames, standing amid a ruined city, arms raised toward a red sky. Then, as quickly as it came, the vision vanished.
" What the…? " Vren muttered, his eyes wide.
He let the ashes fall, and they spiraled in the air, tracing strange patterns before settling on the ground.
The song faded, leaving a heavy silence. Vren felt a warmth rise in his chest. Could it be? An Outcast like him, doing something with ashes? He shook his head. No, that was impossible.
The Ash Lords were the only ones who wielded Ashmagic, and they did it by burning everything in their path. He had nothing. Nothing except…
He grabbed another handful of ashes and closed his eyes. This time, he focused. He pictured the ashes like a thread, something he could weave.
To his amazement, they obeyed. They rose from his hand, forming a thin blade that vibrated softly. The song returned, stronger, and the blade seemed to sing with it, a high note echoing through the room. Vren opened his eyes, mouth agape. A weapon. He had created a weapon with ashes!
But before he could celebrate, a loud crack made him freeze. He looked up just in time to see a broken beam detach from the ceiling. He dove to the side, rolling in the dust.
The beam crashed where he had stood a second earlier, kicking up a cloud of ashes. Vren coughed, scrambling to his feet. He wasn't alone. Heavy footsteps echoed down the staircase.
" Who's there? " he shouted, gripping the ash blade in his hand.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Tall, hooded, wearing black armor adorned with flame patterns. An Ash Hunter. Vren's blood ran cold.
These assassins worked for the Ash Lords, hunting anyone who dared venture too deep into the ruins. And there, with a magical weapon in hand, Vren knew he was in trouble.
" An Outcast with Ashmagic? " the Hunter sneered, his raspy voice filling the room.
" You think you can play with our power? "
Vren stepped back, the blade trembling in his hand. He didn't know how he had done it, but he wasn't about to be taken without a fight.
The Hunter raised a hand, and a fireball erupted, lighting up the room. Vren dove again, feeling the heat singe his hair. He stumbled against a wall and fell to his knees, the ash blade dissolving into the air.
" You'll burn for your insolence," the Hunter growled, advancing.
Vren panicked. He had no training, no plan. But the ashes around him seemed to call to him. He stretched out his hands, desperate, and whispered,
" Help me…"
At that moment, the ashes rose like a whirlwind, forming a barrier between him and the Hunter.
The Hunter's fire hit the barrier and fizzled out with a hiss. The song returned, louder, and Vren felt a new strength flow through him. He stood up, his eyes shining. The ashes danced around him, ready to obey.
" What are you? " the Hunter hissed, stepping back.
Vren didn't have time to answer. An explosion shook the tower, rattling the walls. Shouts rang out outside, followed by the roar of a fire.
The Hunter cursed and turned toward the staircase.
" The Ash Lords are here," he said before rushing out of the room.
Vren stood frozen, his heart pounding. He looked at his hands, still trembling, then at the ashes settling back to the ground. What had just happened? Was it really him who had done that? But before he could think further, a massive shadow blocked the light at the room's entrance. A deep, cold voice boomed:
" You.... You are the one they call the Weaver."
Vren spun around, eyes wide. Before him stood a towering man, dressed in a blood-red robe. His eyes glowed with an orange light, and a wave of heat emanated from him. An Ash Lord. Behind him, flames licked the walls, turning the tower into a growing inferno.
" Come with me, or Shadowgleam will burn to the last stone," the Lord said, a cruel smile on his lips.
Panic surged through Vren. The ashes around him quivered, as if awaiting his command. But before he could decide, a vision hit him like a punch. An entire city in flames, screams, and a shadowy figure made of ashes staring at him, arms outstretched.
A voice whispered in his mind:
[ You are mine, Weaver. ]
The Lord stepped forward, raising a hand to cast a spell. Vren stumbled back, tripping over debris. The flames closed in, and the ash song grew deafening. What could he do? Run? Fight? The vision faded, leaving a chilling question: who was that figure? And why did the Lord call him
" Weaver " ?
Suddenly, a deafening crack split the air. Part of the ceiling collapsed, separating Vren from the Lord. Through the dust and flames, a hooded figure appeared, grabbing Vren by the arm.
" Follow me if you want to live ! " a woman's voice shouted before pulling him toward a hidden exit.
Vren had no choice. He ran, heart pounding, as the tower crumbled behind him. Who was this woman? A friend or an enemy? And most importantly, what would he uncover about the power that had just awakened within him? As they vanished into the darkness, a massive shadow loomed in the flames, watching their escape with a sinister grin.
To be continued…