Chapter 5: The Hand of Cinders
The smoke came before the screams.
At first, the villagers of Therin thought it was a storm—dark clouds rolling from the east, too fast, too low. Then came the ash. Then the fire.
Darien stood at the edge of the chapel hill, his heart pounding. From the distance, he saw it: a wall of flame crawling across the valley like a living beast. It consumed trees, stone, air.
And ahead of it marched figures in black armor streaked with glowing red veins.
"The Hand of Cinders," the priest muttered behind him. His voice was dry with terror. "They haven't walked these lands in over a century."
Darien turned. "What do they want?"
"You."
The priest held out a small pouch.
"Go west, into the Wastes of Vire. Find the Seer of Dust. She's the only one who might know how to seal the mark again."
"And you?" Darien asked.
The priest smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I was never meant to live long enough to see this day. But you… were born for it."
Then he turned and walked down toward the village.
Darien watched in silence as the flames drew nearer. He could feel the mark burning, not with pain—but hunger. As if it recognized what was coming.
The ground trembled.
Screams echoed from the lower streets.
And then... they appeared.
Six soldiers in obsidian armor, faces hidden, swords forged of black fire. In their center walked a taller figure, his mask shaped like a skull, horns curling back like a beast of old.
He raised a hand toward the chapel.
Darien didn't wait.
He turned and ran—into the woods, into the smoke, into the unknown.