Tunnels of the Caelungrift — One Mile Above the Ash Ruins

Aeris Valeblume stumbled through the narrow stone passage, one hand pressed to her ribs, the other gripping a broken dagger slick with blood.

Behind her, two children panted — soot-streaked, shoeless, eyes wide with panic.

“Are they… still following us?” whispered the boy.

Aeris didn’t answer. Her burned hands trembled as she ushered them forward, deeper into the collapsed mining shaft. Dust filled her lungs. Her torn dress dragged behind her like a broken banner.

The shadows pressed in from all sides.

She had no light left. No mana left.
And worst of all — no voice.

Ten Hours Earlier

They’d been hiding in an abandoned storeroom beneath the old apothecary when the Wyrmpriests arrived. Fanatics draped in gold-laced black, with eyes burned blind from ritual ash smoke.

They’d whispered verses as they slit the townspeople open.

One by one.
House by house.
Until only the songmage and her strays remained.

Present — Beneath Caelum

Aeris ducked into a wider chamber, half-collapsed and marked with faded glyphs she didn’t recognize. The air was thick with the scent of burned moss and something older — like iron and incense.

She turned to the girl beside her. “Lina. Find somewhere to hide.”

“Where will you go?”

“Wherever they don’t.”

Lina’s lip trembled. “Can you… sing us safe again?”

Aeris flinched.

Her throat still bore the bruises.
Her voice had cracked days ago. It hadn't recovered.

The First Sign

She turned toward a broken archway carved into the stone.

Runes lined the entrance. Old, smudged, twisted. Not written by priests. Older than prayer.

A soft hum pulsed beneath her feet. Like breath. Like the heartbeat of the mountain.

This place is cursed.

She entered anyway.

Because what chased her was worse.

Ash on the Wall

The chamber inside was massive. Circular. A dome of dark marble half-buried in rubble.

At its center was a ruined altar.
Scorched symbols covered the walls. And there, in the far corner — a spiral of ash, drawn by hand. Fresh. Not centuries old.

“The Ash Wraith,” Aeris whispered.

She’d heard rumors. Whispers traded in rebel camps and bloodied inns.
A figure seen only in the deep, where glyphlight doesn’t reach.

Some said he was a god-burned soul.
Others claimed he was the last survivor of a murdered noble line.

She hadn't believed any of it.

Until now.

Something in the Dark

The air shifted.

Lina gasped. “Where’s Jerrin?”

The boy was gone.

Aeris spun, panic flaring. “Stay here!” she hissed, and sprinted toward the broken hallway.

It was too late.

She found Jerrin standing in front of a wall — one covered in burning runes. His hand was raised toward them.

The symbols flared.

And a shape emerged behind him.

The Guardian Stirs

It wasn’t human.

A humanoid form — ash-colored, faceless, floating above the floor with a crown of cinders haloing its head.

It reached for the boy.

“NO!”

Aeris flung herself forward — pushed Jerrin aside and unleashed the last shred of mana she had left.

A song formed in her throat. Raw. Cracked. Weak.

But the air responded.

For a heartbeat, the wall behind her pulsed. A defensive spell triggered.
The guardian twisted — halting — as runes lashed outward like chains of flame.

Aeris collapsed. The pain in her throat nearly made her black out.

The creature hissed, unfazed.

It raised its hand.

“I don't have enough…” Aeris thought, closing her eyes.

And then—

He Arrives

A shadow cut across the room.

It didn’t run.

It didn’t shout.

It walked — slow, deliberate. Ash clung to the figure like a cloak. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but a strange spiral-mark glowed on his bare hand.

He passed the children without looking at them.

The guardian turned, reacting.

The figure raised his hand — and the glyph ignited.

Black smoke curled into his palm, shaping itself into a jagged blade of ash and memory.

He charged the creature in silence.

The Fight

The two clashed like specters from different worlds.

The ashblade cut through the guardian’s form, unraveling its body into sparks of lost memory. Every strike tore pieces of something Aeris couldn’t understand — laughter, whispers, names.

What kind of power is that?

The boy — Jerrin — crawled back, mouth open in awe.

The fight ended with a single upward slash. The guardian’s head exploded into embers. Its body dissolved into fog.

Ash settled.

The man stood still, breathing heavily.

Face to Face

Aeris got to her feet, staggering forward, blade shaking in her grip.

“You— You did this!” she accused, pointing to the spiral glyph on the wall. “This is your doing!”

The man turned toward her.

His hood fell slightly — revealing a face drawn with grief. Eyes that burned not with fire, but with silence. Silver-gray. Haunted.

She gasped.

He said nothing for a long time.

Then:

“I remember… too much silence.”

He turned and walked into the dark, his cloak trailing embers behind him.

The children stared after him in stunned silence.

Aeris dropped to her knees.

That wasn’t a ghost, she thought. That was something worse.

Aboveground — The Holy Empire

Miles above, in the golden city of Halberion, a messenger bowed before an Inquisitor of the Flame.

“Another tunnel team lost. Three squads. No survivors.”

The Inquisitor didn’t flinch.

“Symbols?”

“Burned into the walls. Spiral glyph. Ashborn signature.”

A pause.

The Inquisitor dipped his quill in red ink and wrote a single word across the scroll:

“Resurgence.”