Chapter Two: The Mark of the Flame
Nyra dreamed of fire.
Not just the fire that devoured her village—but a deeper, older fire that danced in patterns she didn't understand. Spirals of molten gold flickered behind her closed eyes, wrapping around towers made of obsidian, across skies where dragons flew through storms of ash.
When she woke, her hand was hot. Not from the campfire—the flame had died in the night—but from the mark on her palm.
It was glowing again.
She sat up fast, startled by the light in her skin. A soft orange pulse shimmered in the spiral pattern, like it was alive. She tried to rub it away, but the heat didn't fade. The masked knight was already awake, sharpening his blade with calm, slow strokes.
"It's glowing again," she said. "It burns."
He didn't look surprised. "That means your blood is waking."
"What does that even mean?" she asked, rising to her feet. "You keep talking in riddles. Phoenixes. Flamebound. Ember Thrones. Start making sense."
He paused. "You were born of a line that once ruled Aeridale. Your ancestors were not just kings and queens—they were flamebinders. Magic runs in your veins, tied to an ancient force called the Ember Flame."
"Magic?" she scoffed. "No one's had real magic in generations."
"Not since the Regent hunted your bloodline to near extinction."
She paced. "So what now? I'm supposed to be some lost princess with fire powers? I don't know how to do anything! I've never cast a spell, never led an army—I can't even hold a sword right."
He stood. "You don't need to believe it yet. You only need to survive long enough to learn. That starts with the Temple of Cindralis."
She narrowed her eyes. "What's there?"
"Answers," he said. "And a trial. If you pass it, the Phoenix Flame will awaken fully."
"And if I fail?"
He didn't answer.
She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, suddenly cold despite the warmth in her hand. "What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Tairn."
It was a sharp name. Short and hard, like steel striking flint. She nodded once, committing it to memory.
They broke camp and traveled south through the Wildroot Woods, staying off the roads. The trees grew twisted and thick, the sky dim with gray clouds. Birds didn't sing here. The only sounds were their boots on leaves and the low whisper of wind.
As they walked, Nyra couldn't stop thinking about the scroll. Her mother's words haunted her.
"Do not fear the fire."
But how could she not? It had taken her home. Her father. Everything.
Still… the fire in her palm didn't feel evil. It felt like something waiting—watching—willing to lend her strength if she dared reach for it.
They stopped to drink from a stream around midday. As Nyra cupped water in her hands, a low growl echoed from the trees.
Tairn was on his feet in an instant, blade drawn.
From the underbrush came a blur of gray fur and snarling teeth.
"Wyrfhounds," he muttered. "Three of them."
Nyra backed toward a tree, heart hammering.
The creatures were wolf-like but taller than men, with glowing red eyes and jagged black spines running down their backs. Their skin steamed in the daylight, unnatural and rotted.
One lunged at her.
She lifted her arms to shield herself—and flame exploded from her palm.
It wasn't controlled. It wasn't graceful. It was wild, hungry, and terrifying.
The wyrfhound shrieked, engulfed in orange fire, and staggered back into the brush, howling. The other two turned to face her now, more cautious—but their hunger remained.
Tairn struck first, blade flashing in an arc of silver. He moved like wind—fast, precise, merciless. One hound fell with a slash to the throat. The other clawed at his chest, but his armor took the blow.
Nyra stepped forward, hands trembling. The mark on her hand pulsed again. She didn't try to think. She didn't try to control it.
She just let it happen.
Flame erupted again, this time less wild—more focused. A stream of fire burst from her palm and struck the last hound in the side. It yelped and ran.
Then silence.
Smoke drifted between the trees. Nyra stood there, panting, eyes wide.
"You channeled it," Tairn said. "Not bad."
She blinked. "I didn't even try. It just… came."
"That's how it starts. Instinct. Emotion. Later, you'll learn to control it."
She looked at her hand. The mark was still faintly glowing, but not hot now—just warm, like embers in a hearth.
"I didn't want to kill them," she whispered.
"They would've torn you apart," he said. "Compassion will get you killed if you forget what's hunting us."
She nodded slowly. "I get it."
But she didn't—not really. She wasn't a warrior. She wasn't ready. But something inside her had awakened, and it wasn't going back to sleep.
That night, they made camp on the cliffs overlooking the Ashmoor Basin. The stars were dim, hiding behind clouds. Nyra sat by the fire, staring into the flames.
"You said the Flamebound line was hunted," she said. "How many are left?"
"You," Tairn answered. "Only you."
The weight of that settled over her like a cold stone.
"Then I don't get to fail," she said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
But he sat beside her and handed her a small dagger.
"Then let's make sure you don't."