THE HIDDEN FLAME OF LUTHERCHRIS

The night was unusually cold in the quiet town of Wrenford. The wind carried a thin mist, curling around the rooftops like curious spirits. From the window of a small brick house on the edge of the forest, a faint light flickered — the light of a single candle, burning stubbornly against the darkness.

Inside, Collins Lutherchris sat by a dusty wooden table, staring at a faded map and a locket he had worn since childhood. The locket was shaped like a tiny flame — golden, warm to the touch, and always pulsing faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own.

He didn’t know why it pulsed.

He didn’t even know why his parents had left it with him before they vanished ten years ago.

All he knew was that they were gone… and that this house — their old house — was the only piece of them he had left.

---

The floorboards creaked softly as Collins stood and stretched. His dark hair fell across his eyes, and his worn tunic brushed the candlelight. Outside, the forest rustled. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

He tried to shake off the feeling that the night was somehow different. But the silence in the house wasn’t ordinary silence — it was thick, heavy, as if it were listening.

He whispered to himself, half in boredom, half in defiance.

“Maybe I should finally check the basement. I’ve been avoiding it long enough.”

The basement door had been locked since he was a boy. His parents had told him never to open it. After they disappeared, the villagers helped him live alone. He grew up, learned to work with wood and tools, and fixed the house piece by piece. But that one door remained untouched — until now.

---

Collins lit a lantern and carried it to the hallway. Dust floated in the air, glittering in the orange glow. The key he’d found weeks earlier — rusted and cold — fit into the lock perfectly.

The metal turned with a soft click.

As the door swung open, a breath of air escaped from below, cool and ancient, carrying the smell of old stone and something else… magic.

The steps creaked under his boots as he descended. Each step felt like walking deeper into a memory. The walls were lined with strange carvings — symbols that pulsed faintly as his lantern passed.

At the bottom, he found a room half-covered in cobwebs and dust. A broken table. A chest sealed with iron. And at the center, resting on a stone pedestal, was an orb — no bigger than an apple, yet glowing with a dim golden light.

---

Collins felt his breath catch.

He didn’t know why, but he knew this thing. Every fiber of his body told him it was connected to him — to his parents — to the locket he wore.

He stepped closer. The air shimmered, and the carvings along the wall seemed to shift. The whisper began softly at first — like wind through leaves — but soon it became words.

> “Collins… Lutherchris… The Flame is waiting…”

He froze. The voice sounded both distant and near, like someone speaking through water.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, voice trembling slightly. “Show yourself!”

No one answered. Only the orb glowed brighter.

Compelled by something he couldn’t explain, Collins reached out and touched it.

---

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the world exploded with light.

Flames, not hot but alive, wrapped around his arm and spiraled through the room. The carvings flared with golden fire. The ground trembled, dust falling from the ceiling. Collins stumbled back, gasping — but the flame didn’t burn him.

Instead, it sank into his skin.

He screamed — not from pain, but from the flood of memories and visions that burst into his mind:

a tower made of crystal, dragons flying through silver clouds, a woman’s voice saying, “Guard the flame, my son…”

Then darkness.

---

When he woke, the basement was silent again. The orb was gone.

His lantern lay shattered beside him, the flame snuffed out.

Collins sat up slowly, heart pounding. His hand trembled — and that’s when he saw it.

A mark, glowing faintly on his wrist: a swirling flame surrounded by four tiny symbols — water, wind, earth, and fire.

The mark pulsed once, then dimmed.

He tried to breathe, but the air felt heavy. He could feel something moving beneath his skin — energy, wild and fierce. His veins hummed.

“What… what did you do to me?” he whispered to the empty room.

There was no answer.

Only the faint sound of wind — but he realized it wasn’t wind. It was a whisper, soft but clear, echoing from the walls:

> “You are the Heir of the Flame. Awaken… and the world shall remember.”

---

Collins stumbled up the stairs, breathing hard. The lantern light flickered as he reached the living room, slumping into the chair near the hearth. His hand still glowed faintly.

He tried to think.

Was it a dream? A curse? A gift?

His heart told him one thing: this was just the beginning.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky though no clouds had gathered. The wind rose suddenly, rattling the windows.

And from the shadows of the forest, unseen eyes watched his house — eyes that gleamed red like embers.

Somewhere, miles away in the towers of Veylar, ancient instruments flared to life, reacting to the same energy Collins had just awakened. Wizards turned their heads toward Wrenford, their faces pale with alarm.

“The Flame…” one of them murmured.

“It has returned.”