The path to Olyn was overgrown, as if the forest itself had tried to reclaim it in his absence. Branches reached like skeletal fingers, vines curled across stones once well-trodden. Aeris Varn moved quietly beneath the trees, the wind trailing after him like a memory. The sigil of Kaelion, now faded into a dull gold on his hand, pulsed softly beneath the cuff of his cloak.
It had been more than a year since he left — since the dreams led him to the capital, to the sprawling towers of Solinaris and the ancient halls of the Academy of Flame and Thought. He had gone as a blacksmith's apprentice with questions burning in his chest. He returned as something… else.
Not a soldier. Not yet a scholar. But marked — by fire, by fate, and by the god no one dared to name.
The first glimpse of the village made his chest tighten. Olyn looked the same: the squat stone houses, the crooked wooden fences, the single spire of the Temple of Threads rising against the gray sky. Smoke curled from chimneys, yet the streets were quiet — too quiet for a village once filled with laughter and late-night songs.
A group of children peeked from behind a wall, their eyes wide with curiosity and fear. One of them pointed. "It's him… the marked one." The whisper rippled like wind through leaves.
Aeris offered a faint smile, but they vanished behind the stone, as if even kindness was dangerous now.
As he crossed the northern ridge, footsteps crunching softly on frost-laced grass, a figure stepped out from the treeline ahead.
Orla.
She hadn't changed much. Her hair was more silver than gray now, her back slightly more stooped, but her eyes — sharp and blue — still saw too much.
"I knew it," she whispered, voice trembling as she took a slow step forward. "I knew the wind would bring you back."
Aeris didn't speak. He simply walked into her embrace. For a moment, the fire within him quieted.
Inside their cottage, everything was smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he had just grown. The forge behind the house was unused, its coals long dead. A fine layer of dust rested on the old anvil. Orla set a kettle on the hearth while Aeris sat silently, his hands curled near the warmth.
The ticking of the clock on the wall filled the space between words.
"They came looking for you," Orla said at last, breaking the silence.
Aeris lifted his gaze. "Who?"
"Strangers. Cloaked in gray and red. Their speech was polished like nobles, but their eyes were cold. Said they were from the Order of the Threaded Flame. Asked about a boy with a mark."
Aeris's jaw tightened. "Did they harm anyone?"
"No. But they frightened many. The Temple of Threads sealed its doors not long after. The priest vanished. Some say he fled. Others… say he was taken."
He looked down at his hand. The sigil was still there — faint, but alive. "They're hunting Kaelion's chosen."
Orla set a cup before him. Her hands were shaking. "Tell me, Aeris… what did you become in that academy?"
He stared into the fire before answering. "I learned to listen. To shape the flame. To read the patterns of thought. They taught us the old myths. But none dared mention Kaelion — except one."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a torn fragment of cloth. Etched on it was a familiar symbol — a triangle surrounded by wings of fire. Burned, faded… but unmistakable.
"They called themselves the Ashbound," he said. "An ancient order that once served Kaelion. Forgotten. Hunted. One of them found me. Trained me in secret. But the others found him first."
He didn't say what they did. The scorch mark on the relic was answer enough.
"Is that why you came back?" Orla asked gently.
"I came because the past is not done with me. Because I had dreams again. And in all of them, Olyn burns."
That night, Aeris wandered through the quiet village streets. The people were wary — shadows behind windows, whispers trailing after him like ghosts.
He paused at the old well, touching its stones, remembering how he and the others used to play there — climbing, laughing, chasing fireflies into the dusk.
Now there were no children outside. No fireflies.
He climbed the hill to the ruined shrine beyond the forest's edge — the place where he first heard the voice of Kaelion. The altar was broken, the trees scorched. Burn marks ran in long arcs across the earth. And there, half-buried in ash, was a mask — cracked down the center, its surface etched with flame.
As he picked it up, the sigil on his hand glowed softly.
A whisper stirred in the wind.
"The world has not forgotten you, Flame-Bearer."
Aeris turned toward the darkness beyond the trees. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a figure — cloaked in shadow, watching. And then it was gone.
He remained at the shrine until the stars lit the sky. Alone.
Until the past — and the future — whispered together in the silence.
Olyn was not safe. The flames would come. And he, the marked, the chosen, the forgotten spark of a dead god — would have to choose whether to burn with it… or save it.