Embers Beneath the Ashes

The day began like every other in Elyria, though Marcio Sari, 18 years old—orphaned during the great war, always felt the city was holding its breath.

Once the crown of Vynarian culture, Elyria now bore the weight of Arkavian conquest — its towering flame-spires and Diwa-suppressant domes stretching skyward like thorns in the sky. Crimson banners of the Empire fluttered above city gates, and soldiers in gleaming armor patrolled in synchronized rhythm, boots beating down ancient Vynarian stone.

Yet in a corner of the city, tucked away from the chaos and conquest, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang defiantly through the morning haze.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Each strike was clean and precise. Marcio, sleeves rolled, muscles taut, labored over a piece of glowing metal as sparks danced from the anvil. The forge’s orange light glinted off the sweat on his brow. Though still young — not even twenty — his arms bore the strength and memory of years spent at the flame.

“Still thinkin’ about books, boy?” came a voice behind him.

Marcio glanced back at Gorio, the burly, flame-tempered man who had taken him in long ago. With his soot-streaked face and grumbling kindness, Gorio was more than a blacksmith — he was the closest thing Marcio had to a father.

“Always,” Marcio replied with a grin, wiping his hands on his apron.

Gorio snorted and returned to the bellows. “One day, those books’ll melt in your hands and you’ll have nothin’ but ashes.”

“Then I’ll make something from the ashes,” Marcio muttered.

Their forge was modest, nestled in the quieter district of the city where patrols thinned and suspicion lessened. It served farmers, traveling traders, and the occasional Arkavian officer needing a blade reforged. The work was honest. Stable. Unassuming.

But beneath the soot and repetition, Marcio harbored a restlessness.

During breaks, he often wandered to the back wall of the shop — a place no one touched. There, a blackened crescent-shaped scorch mark scarred the brick. The fire from nineteen years ago had left its mark not just on the building, but on Marcio’s soul.

He had no memory of his parents’ names. Only flashes — a burning sky, his mother’s voice, the sea, and then silence.

“You were one of the lucky ones,” Gorio once told him.

But Marcio knew better.

Survivors carry the heaviest burdens.

When the forge cooled that evening and the Arkavian curfew sirens had not yet rung, Marcio slipped into the Old Quarter — a place left to rot and memory. The conquerors had no interest in restoring its temples or towers. What they couldn’t use, they buried beneath dust and time.

But within that forgotten place stood the Elyrian Library.

The doors creaked as he entered, vines and cracked marble lining the entry. Inside, silence reigned. Ancient tomes slept on wooden shelves. Faded banners whispered tales of a lost kingdom. To Marcio, this was sanctuary.

He walked along the familiar aisles until he found his place — an open scroll depicting an ancient battle between a Diwa-bound warrior and a serpent of shadows.

“The Diwa flows through all — mountain, river, beast, and blood,” the text read. “When the world is in harmony, it sings. When it suffers, it roars.”

As he read, the ink shimmered. Just for a moment — a soft pulse of silver beneath his fingers. He gasped and pulled away. The page was still. The light was gone.

He looked around.

No one.

And yet something inside him stirred, like a distant tide rolling beneath his skin.

By the time he left the library, the moon was rising. Elyria was still — too still. As Marcio crossed an alley near the barracks, he stopped. Voices.

Three Arkavian guards stood in the shadow of a watchtower, speaking in hushed tones.

“Another disappearance?” one asked.

“Fourth this week,” said another. “No footprints. No Diwa signature. Just… gone.”

“Rebels?”

“Or something else. Something worse.”

Marcio leaned closer, heart pounding.

“They say a shadow figure walks among us. Someone who moves without sound. A ghost. Maybe not even human.”

The soldiers moved on.

Marcio remained frozen, their words echoing in his mind. Not from fear — but fascination. Rebellion. Ghosts. Shadows moving beneath the Empire's nose.

Could it be true?

Could something — or someone — be resisting?

That word pulsed again in his chest.

Rebellion.

He walked home slowly, head down, mind adrift. The streets were empty. The murals of old Vynarian kings had been painted over, their faces erased by imperial red. Even history had been conquered.

At the forge, he unlocked the door and stepped into the quiet. Gorio had already turned in. The coals in the hearth had cooled, leaving only soft embers.

Marcio sat near them, pulling from his shirt a crescent-shaped pendant. It was old, rough, and worn — the only thing he’d had with him the day Gorio found him.

It thrummed faintly now, as if stirred by the night.

He closed his eyes.

And in that darkness, he heard them — whispers. Faint, impossible to understand, but undeniable. Not imagined. Not dreamed. Whispers like running water. Like breath on flame.

And within them — a name.

His.

Somewhere far above the city, across the rooftops near the old chapel, a cloaked figure stood. Cloak rustling in the wind. Eyes golden, unreadable.

They watched the forge below.

“The spark is alive,” the figure whispered.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***