Ember Born

Rook the stranger

The blinding golden light filled every corner of the small blacksmith shop.

Kael stood frozen, his right hand locked onto the hilt of the sword as the heatless flames danced harmlessly over his skin. The sword sang a deep, ringing song that vibrated in his bones.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the fire vanished.

The flames snapped out of existence, leaving behind only the dim red glow of the forge coals. The heavy silence returned to the shop.

Kael gasped, pulling his hand away from the weapon as if he had been shocked. He stumbled backward, his knees hitting the wooden workbench. He looked down at his right palm. The fresh cut from the wooden splinter was gone. In its place was his old, pale scar, looking completely untouched.

He stared at the sword lying on the table. The dark bronze dragon wings on the hilt looked normal again. The blade was still shiny, clean, and whole, but the magical fire was completely gone.

"What... what just happened?" Kael whispered, his voice shaking.

Before he could process the strange magic, the heavy wooden door of the shop burst open.

"Boy! Is it done yet?" Master Grim roared, stomping into the room with his heavy boots.

Kael jumped, quickly stepping in front of the workbench to hide his trembling hands. "Yes! Yes, Master Grim. It's finished."

Grim shoved past Kael and grabbed the sword off the table. He held it up to the dim light, squinting his small, dark eyes as he inspected the smooth steel and the polished hilt.

"Hmph," Grim grunted, looking surprised. "Not terrible. You actually managed not to ruin it." He tossed two small, dirty copper coins onto the workbench. "There's your pay for the day. Now get out. Go over to the Rusty Anchor tavern and help old Martha sweep the floors. She needs extra hands tonight."

Kael didn't argue. He grabbed the two copper coins, bowed his head, and hurried out of the blacksmith shop into the chilly evening air.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky over Millhaven in dark shades of purple and black. The streets were nearly empty. The townspeople had locked themselves inside their homes early, still terrified of the monster that had slaughtered the shepherd's flock the night before.

Kael walked quickly through the quiet dirt alleys until he reached the center of town, where the Rusty Anchor tavern stood.

The Rusty Anchor was a large, two story building made of dark wood and rough stone. Warm, orange light spilled out from its stained-glass windows, and the muffled sound of loud voices and clinking glass echoed from inside. It was the only place in Millhaven where people gathered after dark, seeking safety in numbers.

Kael pushed open the heavy wooden door and slipped inside.

The tavern was packed. Farmers, guards, and local laborers were crammed together at the wooden tables, drinking cheap ale and talking loudly to drown out their fear. Smoke from the stone fireplace hung thick in the air, smelling of burnt wood and roasted meat.

Old Martha, the tavern owner, was a wide, gray-haired woman with a kind face and a loud laugh. The moment she spotted Kael near the door, she waved him over.

"Kael, sweet boy! Thank goodness you're here," Martha said, handing him a tall wooden broom. "The tavern is crazier than usual tonight. Everyone is spooked by those rumors of the beast. Sweep up the spilled sawdust near the back and keep an eye on the tables."

"I can do that, Martha," Kael said, taking the broom.

As Kael worked his way around the noisy room, sweeping the dirty floor, he kept his ears open. Just like at the stables, every single conversation in the tavern was about the monster in the pasture.

"I heard it has eyes as big as dinner plates!" a drunk guard shouted from a corner table.

"I heard it breathed fire!" a merchant added, slamming his metal mug onto the wood. "It melted the iron wire on Miller's fence like butter!"

Kael kept his head down, sweeping the sawdust into neat piles, but his mind was racing. He thought about the warm, crimson scale in his pocket. He thought about the heatless fire that had wrapped around his hand at the forge. Everything felt connected, but he couldn't piece the puzzle together.

BANG.

The front door of the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of icy night wind that made the fireplace flames flicker violently.

The loud conversations in the room suddenly died down. Everyone turned to look at the front entrance.

A traveler stepped through the doorway.

The stranger was tall and slender, completely covered in a heavy, dark gray traveling cloak. A deep hood was pulled far down over the traveler's face, leaving only a sharp, pale chin visible in the flickering torchlight. A long leather pack was strapped to the traveler's back.

The room remained dead quiet as the stranger walked slowly toward the high wooden counter where Martha was standing. Every step the traveler took was smooth, silent, and precise, like a wild predator moving through tall grass.

"Can I help you, stranger?" Martha asked cautiously, wiping her hands on her apron.

The traveler reached up with two long, slender hands and pulled back the gray hood.

A collective gasp echoed through the tavern.

The stranger was a young woman. She had sharp, handsome features, high cheekbones, and dark, piercing eyes that seemed to scan the entire room in a fraction of a second. Her short, pitch-black hair was cut close to her head. A faint, thin scar ran diagonally across her left eyebrow.

"I need a room for the night," the woman said. Her voice was low, smooth, and steady as steel. "And a hot meal, if you have one."

Martha hesitated, looking the stranger up and down. "A room is five silver pieces for the night. We don't take promises or barter here."

The young woman didn't argue. She reached into a small leather pouch at her belt and pulled out a heavy metal coin. She set it down on the counter with a quiet clink.

Martha picked up the coin and brought it closer to her candle, her eyes widening in confusion.

It was not a standard silver coin used in Millhaven. It was much larger, made of pure, heavy gold that shone brightly under the candlelight. Strange, ancient symbols of a sun and a roaring lion were carved into its surface. It was a piece of unfamiliar old coin—a currency that hadn't been minted in the kingdom for over a hundred years.

"What... what is this?" Martha asked, staring at the golden piece in awe. "I've never seen money like this before."

"It's real gold," the stranger said calmly. "It's worth ten times the price of your room. Keep the change. Just give me the key."

Martha quickly pocketed the ancient coin, grinning from ear to ear. "Top of the stairs, first door on the right. I'll have some hot stew sent up to you right away."

The stranger nodded, taking the brass key from Martha's hand. As she turned to head toward the wooden staircase, her sharp eyes swept across the tavern once more.

She paused, her gaze landing on a table of loud, drinking guards. She walked over to them, her dark cloak swishing around her boots.

"You," the woman said, looking down at a burly guard with a thick beard. "I heard people in town talking about a beast. What happened?"

The guard sat up straight, trying to look brave in front of the attractive stranger. "Ah, just some wild creature down from the mountains. Killed a few sheep at Miller's farm last night. Nothing for a pretty lady like you to worry about."

"I am not worried," the woman replied, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. Her voice remained dead serious. "I want to know the details. Did anyone see it?"

"No one saw the monster itself," another man at the table chimed in. "It struck in the dead of night. But it left deep claw marks in the dirt and smashed the wooden fence to pieces."

The stranger leaned in closer, her sharp questions becoming pointed and precise. "What about the ground? Was there ash? Was there any sign of heat or magic?"

The guard blinked, looking confused by her strange questions. "Well... aye, now that you mention it. Miller said the grass around the fence was scorched black as coal. How did you know that?"

The stranger didn't answer his question. Her jaw tightened, and a flicker of intense focus flashed across her dark eyes.

"Where did the tracks lead?" she pressed, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Toward the mountains? Or toward the river?"

"Toward the mountains, I think," the guard muttered, shaking his head. "Hey, who are you anyway? Why do you care so much about some sheep-killer?"

"My name is Rook," the young woman said simply, stepping back from the table. "And I am hunting."

Without another word, Rook turned around and walked toward the stairs.

Kael stood near the corner of the room, holding his broom, his heart pounding against his ribs. He had listened to every single word of her conversation.

Rook.

She wasn't a normal traveler. She wasn't a merchant or a farm girl. The way she walked, the ancient gold coin she used, and the pointed questions she asked about the beast proved she was looking for something specific. Something dangerous.

As Rook reached the bottom of the wooden staircase, her dark eyes suddenly darted across the room, locking directly onto Kael.

Kael froze like a frightened deer. He tried to quickly look away and pretend to sweep the floor, but it was too late.

Rook stopped walking. She slowly turned her body toward him.

She walked over to where Kael was standing, stopping just a few feet away. Up close, her presence was overwhelming. She smelled of rain, steel, and wild pine needles.

"You're watching me, boy," Rook said, her low voice meant only for his ears.

"I... I'm just sweeping, miss," Kael stammered, keeping his eyes on the floorboards. "I don't want any trouble."

"Look at me," Rook commanded gently, but with an authority that forced Kael to obey.

Kael slowly raised his head, his hands gripping the wooden handle of his broom tightly.

Rook's sharp, dark eyes scanned his face, inspecting his messy hair, his pale skin, and his tired eyes. Then, her gaze traveled down his arm to his right hand.

Because Kael was gripping the broom handle so hard, the palm of his right hand was turned upward, fully exposing his skin to the dim torchlight.

Rook's eyes locked onto his right palm.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

There, etched deeply into the skin of Kael's palm, was his old, pale scar. It was shaped like a jagged, three-pointed flame.

Rook went completely still. The calm, icy expression on her face vanished, replaced by a look of sheer shock and utter disbelief.

She stared at Kael's scarred palm as if she had seen it before as if she recognized the mark from a memory, a story, or a long-lost past.

Slowly, Rook reached out a hand, her slender fingers trembling slightly as she pointed directly at his palm.

"That scar..." Rook whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of the tavern. "It can't be."