THE HIDDEN FLAME OF LUTHERCHRIS

CHAPTER 4: Whispers of the Ember

The rain fell hard over Wrenford that night. It drummed against the windows of the old Lutherchris house, a steady rhythm that masked the faint whispering that came from the cracks in the basement door below.

Collins sat near the fireplace, his hand pressed against the strange mark on his wrist. It hadn’t stopped glowing since his encounter with the orb. Each pulse seemed to echo his heartbeat — steady one moment, wild the next.

He had tried everything to calm it: cold water, meditation, even an old spell from one of his parents’ books. Nothing worked. The flame was alive inside him — restless, like it wanted to escape.

The air around him trembled suddenly.

The candles flickered.

And from somewhere deep in the house, a voice — soft, broken — called out his name.

> “Collins…”

He froze, eyes darting toward the staircase that led down to the basement.

> “Collins… help me…”

The voice sounded distant, but familiar.

His mother’s voice.

---

His pulse quickened. “No… that’s impossible,” he whispered, standing slowly. “You’re gone…”

But the voice came again — closer this time.

> “The Flame… is waking. Find… the Ember Key…”

Then silence.

Only the rain and the creak of the old wooden beams.

Collins took the lantern from the table and stepped toward the basement door. His body moved on instinct, his heart pounding as though something deep within urged him forward.

The moment his hand touched the handle, the mark on his wrist burned like fire. The door swung open on its own — slowly, as if welcoming him back.

He hesitated at the top of the stairs.

The shadows below shifted, moving as if alive.

“Mother?” His voice trembled. “Is that you?”

No answer.

Only a whisper in the dark:

> “You shouldn’t have touched it.”

---

He stepped down cautiously, one foot after another. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of damp stone and something metallic. His lantern flame bent and danced unnaturally, drawn toward the far wall.

That was when he saw it —

a faint glow pulsing beneath the stone floor.

He knelt and brushed the dirt aside, revealing what looked like another symbol — one that matched the flame mark on his wrist. As he traced it with his finger, the ground rumbled faintly.

Then the voice returned, sharper this time.

> “Leave this place, Heir of the Flame… or you’ll awaken what sleeps below.”

Collins stumbled back, clutching his lantern. The light flickered violently, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls.

“I’m not leaving until I know what this is!” he shouted into the darkness.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then — a laugh.

Low, cold, inhuman.

> “So like your father…”

The walls began to move — not crumble, but shift, like living stone. The carvings changed shape, forming faces that twisted in pain. From the cracks in the wall, a black mist seeped out, swirling into a faint humanoid form.

---

Collins took a step back, eyes wide. “What are you?!”

The mist hovered, its form flickering. “A shadow… left behind when your bloodline betrayed the old gods.” Its voice was a whisper and a growl at once. “You carry the Flame, boy… and with it, the doom of us all.”

Before Collins could react, the mist lunged forward. The lantern shattered on the ground, flames bursting around him. Instinctively, he threw up his hands — and the fire stopped midair.

For a moment, the room glowed with suspended embers.

Then they spun into a ring around him — his flame, bending to his will.

His eyes blazed gold as he shouted, “Stay back!”

The flames roared outward, striking the shadow. The creature screamed — a terrible, echoing sound — and exploded into smoke. The room shook violently, and the basement’s walls cracked open.

When the smoke cleared, the mark on his wrist was burning so bright it lit the entire chamber. In the center of the room, where the creature had vanished, lay a small metallic shard — black as coal, shaped like a teardrop.

It pulsed faintly, just like his locket.

---

Collins picked it up carefully. The shard vibrated in his palm, whispering words in an ancient tongue he couldn’t understand. But one phrase echoed clear in his mind:

> “The Ember Key.”

His mother’s voice had mentioned that name.

He turned the shard over in his palm. Strange symbols lined its edge, symbols that looked like flames turning into wings.

“What are you?” he whispered.

But before he could study it further, the entire house shuddered. The rain outside turned to hail. From beyond the forest, a deep, rumbling growl carried through the wind — not from any animal he knew, but from something ancient.

He ran to the window and froze.

The trees at the edge of Wrenford were moving. Their roots twisted unnaturally, and dark shapes slithered between them — shadows with glowing eyes, crawling toward the village.

And in the distance, atop the cliffs of Veylar, a tower flared with light — the same golden hue that burned in his wrist.

---

He clutched the Ember Key tightly.

“Whatever’s happening… it started the moment I woke the Flame.”

Outside, the wind howled like a scream.

The whispering from the basement grew louder — now countless voices murmuring his name.

And beneath it all, one voice — deep and calm — spoke a single line that chilled him to his core:

> “They’re coming for you, Collins Lutherchris. Guard the Flame… or the world will burn again.”