Ash fell like gray snow over the remnants of an ancient battlefield. The wind carried a chill that burned like frost and ash together, sweeping across broken stones and splintered towers. Somewhere far below, a river of molten rock from a long-dead forge still glimmered faintly in the darkness, feeding the ruins with heat that made the ash float in lazy, curling tendrils.
The air itself seemed unstable, vibrating with currents of magic long abandoned, forgotten by the kingdoms of Aetherveil. This was no ordinary ruin—it had been a place where power surged unchecked, where sorcerers, scholars and warriors sought dominion over aether itself, only to falter and vanish into the shadows they had summoned. The stones here whispered of their arrogance.
Yet, amidst the silence of destruction, something stirred.
A spark, small and trembling, flared within the ash like a heartbeat. It shivered with life, as though the air itself recognized it. The glow was faint, almost imperceptible, a flicker of light that did not belong in the desolation. It pulsed once, twice, as if counting, testing, or waiting for the world to notice.
Far to the south, within the Ashreach district, the wind carried a faint echo of that spark. The city of Coalmarsh sprawled across a narrow river delta, its spires and chimneys clawing toward a sky always thick with soot. Here, the forgotten eked out a life among narrow alleys and crumbling stone. Here, the Ashborn waited, scorned by the world beyond their borders.
The spark trembled again, unseen and unheard. It pulsed not with malice, but with something older—raw, unpredictable, patient. It had no name, no face, yet it held a promise: power, once forgotten, might rise again.
Legends spoke of such sparks in hushed tones. They called it the First Veil. The stories were fragmented, twisted by centuries of fear and misinformation. Scholars whispered that the First Veil had split the world's aether into ordered channels: Rune Pulse, the structured magic of knights and scholars; Primal Spirit, the bond between warriors and sacred animals; and Elemental Seals, dominion over fire, water, wind, and stone. But not all who were born under the Veil could be contained. Some carried sparks that burned outside the systems, raw and unbound.
And those who bore the spark were feared.
They were outcasts. They were cursed. They were forgotten.
Even now, the air above Coalmarsh shimmered faintly with unstable energy. Somewhere in Ashreach, a child slept fitfully in a room barely large enough to hold his dreams. His breath was shallow and uneven, yet he carried the spark within him. It was small now, but it would not stay small forever.
The city had long learned to ignore the whisper of ash in the wind. Merchants avoided Ashreach; nobles never ventured past its blackened gates; the knight orders—the champions of aether and law—looked upon the district with distaste, passing laws that forbade entry, branding the inhabitants cursed. Children grew knowing they were unwanted, adults walked hunched, and the old died quietly, leaving behind only whispered names and half-remembered faces.
Yet life persisted, as it always does in the shadows. People bartered in smoke-choked streets, ran errands through alleys slick with soot, whispered in fear and hope. And among them, the spark stirred.
It was patient. It waited through years of obscurity, through the hard lessons of neglect and scorn, through long nights of whispered fears. It waited because the world was not yet ready. But it also waited for the one who would be.
A storm of ash swept across the rooftops that night, carrying the scent of fire and iron. Somewhere, a blackened chimney coughed smoke into the starless sky. A dog barked, long and shrill, startling the few who dared wander the streets after dusk. The spark shifted like a heartbeat, pulsing brighter now, tracing a path toward a child whose name had yet to be spoken in the halls of history.
Kael.
He did not know who he was, not yet. He did not know what he could become, not yet. But in the deepest part of him, beneath the hunger, the fear, and the weight of the world's scorn, a fire lay hidden—a fire that had been waiting since the First Veil to rise.
The kingdoms of Aetherveil would not see it coming. The knights, the mages, the elemental lords—all their laws, their orders, their rules—were blind to it. They would call him cursed. They would call him dangerous. But none could stop what was awakened.
And so, in the heart of Ashreach, beneath coal-streaked towers, the first tremors began. The spark flickered, grew, and whispered its promise into the silence of the ash: a promise that would shape the world, awaken the outcasts, and challenge everything the kingdoms had built.
The world waited, unknowingly, for the Ashborn to rise.
And somewhere, deep in the night, the spark pulsed one final time.
It was ready.