The rain began that afternoon — soft, gray, and heavy with ash.

It fell through the broken ceiling of the mill, whispering against burnt wood and stone.

Eiden sat by the tunnel mouth, staring at the world beyond. Smoke still curled above what was once the village of Vale. Nothing but ghosts remained.

Mira slept against his shoulder, her small hands still streaked with soot. Every time she stirred, he could see the way she trembled — even in dreams. He didn’t blame her. He was trembling too.

The wound in his shoulder was gone, but the memory of it pulsed under his skin like a phantom. Gold light flickered faintly beneath his veins — slow, rhythmic, alive.

 The Lumenflame.

He didn’t know what it was, only that it didn’t belong to this world anymore.

A faint sound echoed through the tunnel — the dripping of water, the sigh of wind, and then—

“You should have let her die.”

Eiden’s head jerked up. The voice came from nowhere, but it was sharp — cruel, like a blade drawn through silence.

He looked around. Nothing.

Then, faintly, the gold veins in his hand pulsed — and the world tilted.

He wasn’t in the mill anymore.

He stood in a field of burning feathers.

Ash drifted down like snow, and a thousand silhouettes knelt in the firelight — some human, some winged, some broken beyond shape.

At the center stood Solane.

Her form shimmered — more human now, but her eyes burned with that same unbearable gold.

She regarded him quietly, her voice like thunder whispering through silk.

“You carry mercy like a wound, Eiden Vale. But mercy is the first thing light devours.”

He clenched his fists. “You— you said you’d help me.”

“And I did. You live.”

“But living comes with cost. Power hungers — it will take from you what you love most if you do not learn to chain it.”

Her gaze softened, for just a moment.

“Your flame is not yet yours. It belongs to something older — a promise left unfinished.”

Eiden’s breath caught. “Then teach me. I can’t let this happen again. I won’t.”

For a heartbeat, the golden storm around her went still.

“Then remember this.”

She raised a finger. Light gathered at its tip — forming a single ember, glowing like a miniature sun.

"To awaken the Lumenflame is to offer a piece of your heart to the fire.

The more you give, the more it remembers.”

The ember floated toward him. When it touched his chest, warmth flooded through his veins — not painful this time, but alive. His heart raced, syncing to a rhythm not his own. The gold light in his arm flared — shaping into faint lines that spiraled across his skin like ancient runes.

He gasped. “What— what is this?”

“The First Ember. A bond between your will and mine.

It will let you channel a fraction of the old light — enough to survive what hunts you.”

Eiden looked down at the glow tracing his arm — bright, intricate, and faintly trembling. It pulsed like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

And somewhere in that glow, he could hear something — faint whispers, thousands of voices humming in a language older than words.

When he looked up, Solane was gone.

Only a trail of falling embers remained.

---

He woke with a sharp inhale.

The rain still fell. Mira was awake now, eyes wide as she stared at him.

“Eiden— your arm…”

He followed her gaze.

The golden runes still glowed faintly under his skin, curling like veins of fire. But they didn’t burn — not yet.

“It’s… alright,” he lied, standing. “We need to move.”

“Move where?” she whispered.

He looked to the east — where the road to the capital vanished beneath mist. Somewhere out there, the Harvesters regrouped. And above them all, the Empire that hunted his kind.

“To find out why they fear this light,” he said quietly. “And what it really is.”

Mira hesitated, then nodded — small but certain. She took his hand.

They walked into the rain.

Each step left faint golden ripples in the puddles beneath them, fading as quickly as they appeared.

The world was quiet, but something vast had begun to stir — like the deep breath before a storm.

---

Far away, in the Sanctum of the Empire, a circle of figures knelt before an altar of mirrored stone.

In the reflection, the same golden mark that burned in Eiden’s arm flickered faintly.

“The Eighth spark awakens,” one of them murmured.

Another figure stepped forward — her eyes cold as moonlight.

“The others will feel it too,” she said. “The balance will not hold.”

“Then let it break,” the leader whispered. “The Age of Light must never return.”

---