2025-11-19 16:47:30“Some stories begin with love. Theirs began with being thrown away.”
Night fell harshly on Emberfall Village.
A storm gathered above the rooftops, stirring dust and dead leaves through the narrow alleys. Windows shut early. Dogs hid under porches. Even the wind felt afraid.
Two infants—one boy, one girl—shivered in an old wicker basket as they were carried under the cloak of darkness.
Lyra’s tiny fingers clung to the frayed cloth.
Joren Vale cursed under his breath as thunder rumbled overhead.
“Damn these brats,” he spat, struggling with the basket. “Should’ve drowned them when we had the chance.”
Mirra, walking beside him, hissed sharply, “Quiet! Elden said no bodies. Just leave them. Quick and clean.”
“Clean?” Joren sneered. “We already burned their house.”
Mirra slapped his arm. “Shut up!”
Behind them, the burned remains of Rylan’s cottage still glowed faintly—embers simmering beneath the ash. The smell of smoke clung stubbornly to their clothes.
And somewhere deep beneath the rubble…
But its purpose had already been served.
Tonight, the twins’ fate would be sealed.
The slums of Emberfall—called The Gutter by villagers—lay at the edge of the forest. Broken houses leaned like drunken skeletons. Mud and trash filled the narrow lanes. Sickly lanterns flickered weakly, unable to pierce the heavy fog.
It was the kind of place where even stray dogs didn’t wander.
Joren kicked aside a crate and spat.
Mirra shivered. “Ugh. Smells like death.”
They reached the very end of the slums—a collapsed stable with half its roof missing, walls blackened from a fire many years old.
Elden, waiting there with a hood over his head, stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re late.”
Joren thrust the basket forward.
Elden peered inside.
Arin’s pale eyes blinked up at him—confused, frightened.
Lyra reached up weakly, as if asking to be held.
Elden didn’t flinch.
Only calculation.
“Do it,” he ordered.
Mirra hesitated for the first time.
Elden glared.
Joren scowled. “They won’t come. They threw their ‘princess’ into a dungeon. Why care about the brats?”
“Because their blood is dangerous,” Elden muttered. “And dangerous things must be hidden.”
Mirra whispered, voice trembling, “What if someone finds them?”
“Then they’ll die slowly,” Elden said carelessly. “There is no food. No warmth. Nothing. They won’t even last till dawn.”
Joren nodded coldly. “Good. Less trouble.”
He turned to leave.
But the thunder cracked violently, splitting the sky with a jagged white flash. Rain began to pour—cold, heavy, merciless.
Lyra cried, terrified.
Mirra bit her lip.
“That’s the point,” Elden said.
Joren spat one last time.
They left.
Boots splashing through mud.
The twins were alone.
Arin tried to sit up, but his body was too small, too weak. He fell back into the basket, crying softly. Lyra’s little hands sought warmth, but found none.
Lightning illuminated their surroundings—rotting beams, broken tools, a rusted bucket, torn sacks of moldy grain.
Everything screamed one truth:
This place was a graveyard.
And they had been left here to die.
They cried until their voices cracked, but no one heard them. The rain drowned their sobs. The darkness swallowed their fear.
Hours passed.
They cried until they couldn’t anymore.
Arin’s little hand found Lyra’s.
Lyra turned her face toward him, pressing their foreheads together instinctively—seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking life.
The storm raged on.
But they endured.
And someone was watching.
A hunched figure sat under a broken awning across the alley—wrapped in rags so torn they looked like dripping moss. His beard reached his chest, and his hair fell in tangled ropes over his shoulders. No one knew his name.
The villagers called him “Old Rot”, the useless beggar who muttered to shadows and laughed at the wind.
Tonight, he was unusually silent.
He watched the twins with unreadable eyes—gray, sharp, strangely lucid beneath the grime and madness.
“This is interesting…” he murmured.
A flash of lightning reflected in his gaze, revealing something ancient behind the wrinkles.
He leaned forward.
“Phoenix blood… mixed with mortal shadow…” he whispered, voice trembling with excitement. “So this is where fate chooses to toss its greatest pieces.”
He shuffled closer, every footstep slow, deliberate.
The twins stilled.
Arin looked up, pupils dilated with fear.
Lyra’s fingers glowed faintly again—just enough to cast a tiny golden halo in the basket.
Old Rot’s breath caught.
“Oh… oh my… Blessed heavens…”
His lips curled into a smile—one both warm and chilling.
He reached toward them with shaking hands—
But then snapped them back.
“No. Not yet. The heavens are watching.”
He straightened, back cracking like old wood.
“You fools above… You tossed these children away. You think fate can be bent by cowards.”
He spat into the mud.
“But I… I see the storm within them. The prophecy will breathe again.”
He turned back to the babies.
“In time,” he whispered, voice trembling, “I will see what you become.”
He stepped backward, melting into the shadows.
And the storm quieted suddenly—
Cold wind swept through the stable.
Arin’s crying faded into shallow breaths.
Their bodies were shutting down.
The rain softened.
A dog barked in the distance.
And then—
Slow. Heavy. Hesitant.
A silhouette appeared at the entrance of the collapsed stable—a tall man carrying a lantern.
His breath caught the moment he saw the basket.
“Oh no… not again…” he whispered.
His face fell into agony.
Recognition.
Grief.
Regret.
He rushed inside, kneeling before the basket.
“Twins…” he whispered. “Just like her prophecy said…”
He reached for them.
And the moment his fingers touched the basket—
A faint scream echoed across the stormy sky.
Not human.
Not mortal.
A Phoenix wail.
The man froze in terror.
The twins went silent.
And far… far away…
Seraphina jerked awake inside the Celestial Furnace.
“My children…”
Fire surged violently around her.
Something had awakened.
Something was changing.
Something was coming.
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Chapter 13 — The Slum’s Three Friends
The slums were louder than usual that morning—shouts from street vendors, the clang of broken pots, the distant laughter of children pretending they weren’t starving. But beneath the noise, Arin felt a tension lurking in the air. As if the world itself was holding its breath after the strange symbol had appeared on their wall the night before.He kept Lyra close as they made their way toward the water barrels. Their shelter was no longer safe. They needed information—and allies.Whether he liked it or not.Lyra tugged on his sleeve. “Do you think someone will help us?”Arin hesitated. Help was hard to come by in the slums. But there were three people—three children like them—who had crossed paths with him enough times to matter.The first appeared without warning, as always.A cold voice cut through the morning air.“You’re late. The water’s almost gone.”Arin turned.Elira stood by the barrel, pale morning light reflecting off her dark hair. Her expression was as unreadable as ever—e
Chapter 12 — Arin’s First Faint Echo
The night fell heavy over the slums, carrying an unnatural chill that seeped through broken rooftops and thin blankets. Arin lay curled on the dirt floor beside Lyra, trembling uncontrollably. Sweat drenched his forehead. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.A fever—violent and sudden.Lyra had begged him to rest in the warmest corner of their makeshift shelter, but warmth felt like a distant dream. Every pulse of heat sent another wave of pain through Arin’s body, as though something inside him was fighting to break free.“Arin,” Lyra whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Please stay awake. Please.”He tried to respond, but the world around him blurred into a haze of shadows and muffled sounds.His fever wasn’t normal.His visions weren’t normal.And worst of all—the presence watching them earlier still lingered in the back of his mind.Arin gritted his teeth. “I’m fine.”The lie fell apart the moment it left his mouth. His body shook harder, his throat tightened, a
Chapter 11 — First Sign of Divine Bloodline
The slums woke slowly that morning, as if the sun itself hesitated to pour its light upon a place that forgot hope long ago. Thin smoke drifted from broken chimneys. Mothers shook dust from blankets. Children with hollow eyes hunted for leftover scraps from the market three streets away.But inside a narrow alley, beneath a collapsed roof held together by old rope and desperate faith, Arin and Lyra sat huddled beside a shivering stray dog.It had followed them for two days—limping, ribs showing, fur matted with dried blood. Arin had tried to scare it off at first. One more mouth meant one more problem. But Lyra… Lyra couldn’t walk away.She never could.“Arin,” she whispered, cupping the dog’s head gently. “He’s going to die.”Arin looked away. He hated this feeling—the helplessness of wanting to save but lacking the power, the food, even the freedom to try. He had nothing. He was nothing. And the world made sure he never forgot that.“We can’t save every dying thing,” Arin muttered.
Chapter 10 — Growing in Filth
The slums changed slowly—rotting boards collapsing here, a new layer of grime added there—but for Arin and Lyra, change happened whether they wanted it or not. Days turned into months; months slid into years. The world did not pause for abandoned twins.And so, they grew.Not in comfort or warmth, but in filth.The slums of Ember Hollow offered no kindness. The air always smelled of spoiled rice and smoke. Beggars fought over scraps. Children disappeared without a trace. Gangs controlled the alleys like miniature tyrants. But even in this cesspool, two small figures endured—thin, hungry, and clothed in stitched rags.Yet, they were always together.Always.At age five, Arin already possessed the shoulders and arms of a child who worked far beyond his years. Every morning, he hauled buckets of water for a local tavern in exchange for stale bread. Every afternoon, he carried wooden crates for vendors—sometimes for coins, more often for kicks to the ribs.But he didn’t complain.He could
Chapter 9 — A Miracle of Survival
The slums of Ember Hollow were places where even the moonlight hesitated to fall. Cracked rooftops leaned like broken ribs, and foul-smelling mist rose from open drains. Scavengers prowled the alleys—rats, thieves, and worse. In this forgotten corner of the realm, the cries of abandoned children were no more significant than the whistling of the wind.Tonight, however, something stirred differently.A faint, whimpering sound came from a dirty bundle near a collapsed wall. Two infants huddled together—one boy and one girl—wrapped in torn cloth that still carried the faint scent of phoenix ash. Their cheeks were smeared with dust, but their eyes glowed with unusual brilliance. The girl, Lyra, slept fitfully, clutching her brother’s sleeve. The boy, Arin, remained awake, tiny brows scrunched as though he sensed danger crawling closer.They were only a year old—soft, fragile, defenseless.Or so it seemed.A group of bandits moved through the slum path, boots splashing through muddy puddle
Chapter 8 — The Night of Abandonment
“Some stories begin with love. Theirs began with being thrown away.”Night fell harshly on Emberfall Village.A storm gathered above the rooftops, stirring dust and dead leaves through the narrow alleys. Windows shut early. Dogs hid under porches. Even the wind felt afraid.Two infants—one boy, one girl—shivered in an old wicker basket as they were carried under the cloak of darkness.Lyra’s tiny fingers clung to the frayed cloth.Arin, barely awake, whimpered against the cold.Joren Vale cursed under his breath as thunder rumbled overhead.“Damn these brats,” he spat, struggling with the basket. “Should’ve drowned them when we had the chance.”Mirra, walking beside him, hissed sharply, “Quiet! Elden said no bodies. Just leave them. Quick and clean.”“Clean?” Joren sneered. “We already burned their house.”Mirra slapped his arm. “Shut up!”Behind them, the burned remains of Rylan’s cottage still glowed faintly—embers simmering beneath the ash. The smell of smoke clung stubbornly to th
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