The fire crackled within the root-bound temple, warming the bodies and hopes of those who lived there. Eleonor Antonelli, clad in leather armor dyed with pigments from the forest, stood in silence, gazing at the dancing flame at the center of the hall. That was no ordinary fire — it was the Flaming Heart, the living symbol of the magic that bound her tribe together.
Since childhood, Eleonor had heard the tales of the elders. "Fire is more than heat. It's life. It's power. It's faith." She believed it. She felt it in her blood. On every cold night when her body didn't shiver, with every wound that healed at a whispered spell, she knew she was a daughter of flame.
Her tribe lived in secret, hidden beneath the thick canopies of the forest, invisible to the eyes of city men. Here, mages were free. Here, being different was not a curse — it was a gift.
At seven, Eleonor braved her first storm alone in the Wolf's Clearing. At twelve, she survived a duel against one of the strongest apprentices. At fifteen, she entered the Black Forest — and came back alive. The scars on her arms were proudly worn like medals.
But even the fiercest flame can be smothered by fear.
On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, the birds did not sing.
The ground trembled beneath the march of metal boots. The trees bled black sap. And when the first light tore across the sky, Eleonor knew: they had been found.
The soldiers of the Church of Purification had come. Their armor was laced with enchanted silver, their spears hummed with anti-magic runes, and their eyes were colder than the northern snows. They did not shout. They did not hesitate. They simply destroyed.
— "Cursed are those born of profane flame!" the commander roared, raising a burning cross. — "In the name of the One God, cleanse this land!"
Eleonor ran. Not to flee — but to fight.
The fire burned in her hands. Her flames were alive, furious, and each movement was a dance of destruction. Beside her, forest warriors screamed with rage, striking down enemies with spears, stones, and magic.
But it wasn't enough.
One by one, her brothers and sisters fell. The air stank of ash and blood. The forest wept in silence. And then, Eleonor saw the glint of the sacred spear heading toward her.
She tried to dodge. She tried. But the spear pierced her stomach like a burning arrow, stealing her breath. She collapsed, feeling a cold she had never known. The warmth of her magic… was fading.
Arms caught her. Teary eyes met hers.
— "You... survived the Black Forest, Eleonor... You can't die like this." It was his voice — the one she loved most. Kalem, her companion, her love, her home.
She smiled, even with blood on her lips.
— "Then... bring me back."
And her flame… went out.
But deep within the void, embers stirred. Silent. Waiting.
A forgotten power whispered through time and ash, calling to her soul:
"Your fire is not done. Rise, Eleonor."