The Last Emberborn

Darkness stretched endless and heavy.

But somewhere within it—warmth.

A single ember pulsed in the void, its glow rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Draven drifted toward it, weightless, drawn without effort. As he neared, the ember flared, and from its light emerged a silhouette—vague at first, then taking shape.

A man? No, not quite. His body was flame, flickering and robed in smoke. Eyes like molten coal. When he spoke, it was like wind rushing through a forge.

> "Draven."

The teen flinched. The voice was... clearer now.

> "Your fire stirs," the figure said. "But fire without shape is destruction. Will you let it consume... or command it?"

Draven's lips parted to speak—but the heat surged suddenly, rushing toward him like a wave.

He gasped—eyes flying open.

---

The forgehouse ceiling greeted him, blurred by sweat. Pain throbbed through his limbs, especially along his shoulder and back. His breath came fast, and he clutched at his forearm. The mark burned faintly—no longer wild, but... alive. It glowed softly, etched just above his wrist, not with flame, but with an inner pulse like coals stirred from slumber.

"Easy," came Garrik's voice beside him.

Draven turned. The old smith sat on a stool, arms crossed, a grim shadow under his eyes.

"You've been out for a day and a half."

Draven sat up slowly, his head spinning. "What… what happened?"

Garrik didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at him. Then, slowly, he said, "Veyr is gone. He left through a shadow gate after the fight. The village is safe… for now."

Draven touched the glowing mark on his forearm. "It hurts less."

"That's not a good thing," Garrik muttered.

A silence settled. Garrik stood, walking toward the window, watching smoke still drift over the village. Then:

 "You can't stay here anymore, Draven."

Draven blinked. "What?"

"The Black Order has seen you. They'll come again. And next time, they won't send a lone Tier. They'll send fire enough to raze this whole valley. You staying here... it's a death sentence."

Draven clenched his fists. "So I run?"

Garrik turned back to him, his voice low. "You survive."

"I can fight—"

"You're not ready."

Those words cut deeper than any blade. Draven looked away, jaw tight.

Garrik approached and placed something on the table. A folded map, worn with age. Its corners were inked with symbols.

"Old friends of mine," Garrik said. "From the days when Emberborn still rode with pride. They're scattered now… hiding like the rest of us. But they stood with your people to the bitter end. If anyone can help you control what's waking inside you—it's them. Take the path of the forest its always best to avoid eyes..You be careful though and mind your surroundings as you wander. You'll use the cover of the night, less bandits that way."

Draven stared at the map.

"And after that?" he asked.

"There's a place," Garrik said slowly. "An academy. Hidden. Neutral. The Black Order doesn't strike openly there. It only accepts the rarest talents… but you, Draven—you'll qualify just by breathing."

Draven swallowed.

 "You said… it was my choice."

Garrik nodded. "It still is. But you already know what you have to do."

---

That evening, the sky painted the village in gold and purple. Draven stood beneath the old tree by the well—the place where he and his friends often met.

Mara was the first to find him. Her eyes searched his.

"You're leaving," she whispered.

He nodded. "I have to."

Jareth came next, stepping close beside her. "We figured. Garrik told us what happened. Or… enough."

Draven tried to smile, but his throat tightened.

"I'd only endanger you if I stayed," he said. "The man who came… he won't be the last."

Mara stepped forward and hugged him tightly without warning.

"Then promise me something," she said into his chest. "Live."

Jareth chuckled sadly. "And if you ever become some great legend or academy champion—don't forget the idiots who helped you kill a boar."

Draven laughed. "Never."

From behind them came soft footsteps.

Talia, the little girl from the bakery, stood holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Her eyes were red.

"You're going?" she asked softly.

Draven knelt. "I am. For now."

She hesitated, then gave him the bundle. "I made it for you… with mama's help."

Inside was a tiny leather pouch, clumsily stitched, with a tiny flower pressed into the seam.

"It's to keep you safe," she said.

Draven hugged her tightly. "Thank you, Talia."

"Promise you'll come back."

He nodded, trying not to let the tears fall.

---

Night came. The village stood quieter than usual. As Draven prepared to leave, Garrik handed him a traveling cloak and his old dagger, reforged and polished.

"You've got a long road," Garrik said. "But you won't walk it alone."

Draven nodded, pulling up his cowl and underneath hiding his tears.

And with a last glance at the village that raised him—the square where he trained, the forge that shaped him, the people who loved him—Draven turned toward the wild unknown. Only fate knew if they would ever cross paths again.

The mark on his forearm pulsed once, steady and quiet.

The world awaited.