The wind howled over the valley of Ashvale, carrying with it the scent of iron and rain. The fields were quiet, as though the earth itself held its breath. Beneath a crooked oak, a boy sat alone, his eyes fixed on the sky.


Elijah had always been different from the others. Where the other village boys laughed and fought with sticks, Elijah would wander the cliffs, chasing whispers that only he could hear. He was sixteen now, tall and lean, with storm-gray eyes that seemed to see beyond the horizon. His mother used to say he was born during a thunderstorm — “a child of the tempest,” she called him — though she never spoke of his father.


That night, the clouds gathered like bruises across the heavens. Lightning flashed, staining the hills silver. Elijah didn’t run for cover. He stood, staring upward, drawn by a sound that made his heart tremble — a low, rumbling roar that rolled through the air like the growl of a mountain.


The roar came again.

And then he saw it.


A streak of fire tore through the sky, splitting the clouds as though the heavens themselves were burning. The villagers screamed and scattered, pointing as the fireball descended toward the forest beyond the river. The ground shook when it struck. A thunderous wave of light swept across the valley, and for a heartbeat, Elijah swore he saw wings in the flames.


Then darkness.


He woke to silence, lying amid ash. His village — the only home he’d ever known — was gone. Huts smoldered, trees were charred to bone, and the air reeked of smoke and sorrow. He stumbled through the ruins, calling out names that no one answered. His mother’s house was nothing but blackened wood. Inside, he found the pendant she always wore: a small silver scale that glimmered faintly even through the soot.


He closed his fist around it. “I’ll find out what happened,” he whispered. “I swear it.”


That was when he heard the voice.


“Elijah…”

It wasn’t human. It came from everywhere — the air, the fire, the ground beneath his feet.

“Elijah of Ashvale. The fire has chosen you.”


He spun around, heart pounding. “Who’s there?”


“Seek the Cavern of Embers. There you will find the first flame. The dragons are waiting.”


Before he could speak again, the wind rose, scattering the ash like snow. When it settled, Elijah stood alone. But the pendant in his palm pulsed with faint, living warmth.


He turned toward the forest where the fireball had fallen. Somewhere beyond those burning trees, something ancient had awakened — something that had called his name.


And though fear clawed at him, another feeling burned stronger: purpose.


He wrapped the pendant around his neck, gripped the worn hilt of his father’s sword, and stepped into the smoke.


The boy from Ashvale was gone.

Only the seeker remained.