The Heir of Veiled Realms

Chapter 2: Whispers Beneath the Ashes

The smoke hadn’t yet cleared from the Temple of Still Flame. The scent of scorched stone lingered in the air like a warning and Kael's body, bruised and bloodied, lay sprawled among the rubble, unmoving.

It was not death that claimed him, but something stranger: silence. An overwhelming quiet that blanketed the world as if the temple had been ripped from time itself.

And in that unnatural stillness… a whisper. “You shouldn’t have survived.”

Kael stirred. The whisper, soft as mist on glass, didn’t belong to any voice he knew, male and female all at once, ancient yet new.

He sat up slowly, fingers trembling. The stone beneath him was warm, still glowing faintly. His robes were torn, his forehead smeared with blood and soot. Where were the others?

He remembered the crowd. The priests. The Rite of Flame. The mockery. And then, the fire that swallowed everything.

Kael rose to his feet shakily. No one else moved. Statues that once lined the hall were broken, their expressions frozen mid-prayer.

The altar was cracked in half. The ceremonial brazier, meant to channel the Flame’s judgment, was dark, and empty. Kael’s hand drifted to his chest. He expected nothing. But there it was. A warmth. A flicker. It pulsed once, faint but real. Something had entered him.

As Kael limped through the temple’s skeletal remains, guilt clung to him like smoke.

Why him?

Why not Master Dorian, who had given thirty years to the Temple?

Why not Ansel, who trained his entire life for the Flamebond?

He hadn’t believed. Not truly. He’d gone through the rites only because the orphanage demanded it, a token offering from their “least promising child.”

The boy with no parents. No bloodline. No sigil. “Useless Kael,” they had called him. But now…

He was the only one left.

Outside, the world waited, unaware that something impossible had happened. But Kael wasn’t alone.

In the shadows of the shattered Temple stood a man cloaked in traveling robes. He had watched the explosion from afar. Not with fear. Not with awe. With interest. His eyes were not normal. Gold, slit like a cat’s. They shimmered with something… ancient. He whispered to no one, “It chose him.”

From his cloak, he pulled out a medallion etched with six runes. Five of them glowed faintly. The sixth, a flame, pulsed brightly now. He turned away, vanishing into the woods.

Kael staggered back to Dustvale. His arrival caused a stir. The boy who went to the Temple… and returned alive? The Matron of the orphanage, tall and severe, dragged him inside by the collar before anyone could speak to him. Inside, the lecture was swift and cold.

“How dare you come back like this? What lies did you tell? What game are you playing? They say the Temple is gone!”

Kael tried to speak, but couldn’t find the words. He didn’t remember escaping. He barely remembered surviving. The warmth in his chest flickered again. It was not a comfort, it was pressure, like something buried waking up. “What are you?” he thought.

“Not yet,” the whisper inside replied.

That night, Kael dreamed. He was surrounded by mirrors. Each one showed a different version of himself, older, younger, stronger, dying. Some fought monsters. Others wore robes. One sat on a throne of bones.

But only one mirror glowed. He reached for it. Fire surged up his arm. He screamed.

The next morning, a traveling healer arrived in Dustvale, a woman cloaked in silver, with hands like moonlight and eyes that never blinked. She asked for Kael by name. When questioned, she simply said, “He is owed an explanation.” The Matron refused her entry. The villagers watched from windows, nervous.

That night, the healer entered Kael’s room without opening the door. She stood at the edge of his bed.

“I am Aerin,” she said. “I’ve come because the Flame touched you. And if we do not act soon, it will consume you.”

Kael blinked. “I’m not chosen. I was nothing. I am nothing.”

“No,” Aerin replied. “You were forgotten. And the Flame remembers.”

Over the next days, Aerin taught him things no orphan should ever know. About sigils, birthmarks of power passed down through bloodlines, each tied to one of the nine sacred domains.

About martial sigils, which turned hands into weapons and bodies into art. About medica sigils, which could rebuild flesh and purify sickness. And about the Sigil of Flame, the rarest, most dangerous of all.

“But I have no sigil,” Kael insisted.

“Not a visible one,” Aerin corrected. “Yours is awakened. It came to you unnaturally, through trauma, through the collapse. That makes you… unstable. Dangerous. But also unique.”

“Unique,” Kael echoed bitterly. “That’s what they said about monsters.”

Aerin gave him a look, not pity, not fear. Something closer to recognition.

“Do not mistake their blindness for truth. The world fears what it does not understand.”

She handed him a scroll, burned along the edges. Inside were illustrations, depictions of flamebearers across centuries. Each bore a different style, weapon, language. Kael’s breath caught at the final image.

It was a man standing alone at the edge of a collapsing world. Fire poured from his eyes. The scroll didn’t say his name. But beneath the image was one word: “Heirless.”

Whispers began to stir in Dustvale. Kael was acting strange. Talking to himself. The silver woman was seen at night. Livestock shied away from him. Windows closed when he passed. One child said they saw Kael practicing in the field, palms glowing. The Matron called a meeting.

“This is how it begins,” she hissed. “Cursed blood. Dark arts.” A vote was taken. He would be cast out.

Aerin tried to stop them. But Kael made the choice for her. “I’ve lived alone before,” he said. “Let them sleep easy.” That night, under a frozen sky, Kael left Dustvale with a pack of food, the burned scroll, and Aerin’s final words: “There are places that will hunt you. But there are also those who will teach you to burn rightly. Go east. To the Forest of Echoes. There, the first trials begin.”

Three days into his exile, Kael stumbled upon a group of bandits tormenting a merchant girl. He should have run. He was weak. Untrained. But as the bandits raised their blades, the warmth in Kael’s chest exploded.

His eyes turned gold. Flame roared from his fists. The bandits screamed as the ground beneath them cracked.

The merchant girl cowered. “What are you?” Kael didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

But something in him whispered: “You are the first spark of the storm to come.”

Far away, in the fortress-city of Nyreth, a sigil-bearing noble reviewed a report.

Subject: Kael of Dustvale. Survived the Temple collapse. Exhibits uncontrolled flame sigil activity.

Recommendation: Eliminate or detain.

Status: Bounty issued. Reward: 500 gold crowns.

He sealed the report and handed it to a courier. “Find the Ravenblades. Tell them the hunt begins.”