The wind carried the sharp tang of ash across the valley, rustling the golden strands of Tess's hair. He leaned back against a fallen tree atop the cliffs that overlooked the jagged valley below, the place he had always come to escape. Here, the world felt quieter. Here, for a moment, he could breathe.
Below him sprawled the city he called home—a medieval city of crumbling walls, narrow cobblestone streets, and towering spires of blackened stone. Smoke rose in thin columns from a dozen chimneys, carrying the scent of burnt wood and iron. The streets were littered with the detritus of life—discarded food, broken carts, and the occasional scavenger trying to survive like him.
Tess had never truly belonged in the city. Orphaned at a young age, he had learned to navigate the shadows of alleyways, listening for guards' boots and merchants' calls, avoiding the gangs that ruled the lower districts. The city was alive, yes, but it had a heartbeat that made him ache—a pulse that reminded him how small and fragile he was.
He often imagined what it must have been like before the flood of the Netherflow—before the gods fell, before the streets became ash-strewn and the towers hollow. Stories told in whispers by old beggars spoke of a city bathed in light, alive with the song of bells and laughter. Tess didn't know if it was true, but sometimes, in the quiet of his favorite cliffs, he let himself dream.
"Another day, another ash storm," he muttered to himself, watching the sun dip behind the jagged horizon. His green eyes reflected the fading light as he kicked at a loose stone. "Not like anyone cares if I survive anyway."
A faint warmth stirred above his heart—the Sigil Flame, faint and almost imperceptible. He had long grown used to the feeling, a dull pulse that reminded him he was alive in a world that had nearly forgotten what life meant. Tonight, though, it throbbed slightly stronger, as if sensing something he couldn't yet understand.
A sudden rustle in the underbrush snapped him from his thoughts. Tess froze, muscles tensed. At first, he thought it might be a stray cat—or a fox scavenging for scraps. But the shadow that emerged was larger, more powerful, and wobbled as it moved.
It was a wolf—or something like one. Its fur was matted with blood, one leg twisted unnaturally, dragging on the ground. Its golden eyes fixed on him, burning with both fear and defiance.
Tess's pulse quickened. Run, his instincts whispered.
He bolted down the narrow cliff path, feet pounding against dirt and stone. The wolf followed, limping heavily, but relentless. Tess's lungs burned, and his legs threatened to give way, but he forced himself onward. Every instinct screamed at him to trip, to fall, to surrender—but he had survived worse in the city. Hunger, fights with thieves, being hunted by the city guards… none of it compared to this raw, living threat.
For hours, they ran. Tess could feel the pulse of the Sigil Flame strengthening, flickering wildly above his heart with every step. The wolf's injury slowed it just enough to keep him alive. And finally, after what felt like an eternity, the creature let out a low, ragged howl and retreated into the shadows, vanishing like smoke into the trees.
Tess collapsed to the ground, gasping. He pressed a hand to his chest. The Sigil Flame flared brightly, almost painfully. It was more than just survival—it was recognition. The flame seemed to hum in agreement, a soft warmth against the chill in his bones.
He sat there for a long moment, listening to the wind whipping through the cliffs. From afar, the city lay like a dark scar across the valley, its spires broken, its streets choked with smoke. Tess shivered, wondering if he would ever truly belong there—or anywhere.
And then he noticed something strange: a shimmer among the stones near the edge of the cliff. At first, he thought it was a trick of his tired eyes. But as he drew closer, he saw a faint distortion in the air—a pulse of energy that made the hair on his arms stand on end. The runic patterns flickered in faint light, shaped in intricate spirals that seemed almost alive.
He didn't know what it was yet. All he knew was that the Sigil/Divine Flame pulsed brighter above his heart, as if pulling him forward. A part of him wanted to step back, to ignore it and return to the safety of the cliffs. But another part—something deep and defiant—urged him onward.
Somewhere far below the cliffs, in a crumbling alley of the city, an old man turned the brittle pages of the Codex, muttering under his breath:
> "Ah… ah… the Sigil stirs… the flame rises again… the child of ash walks where the Trial awaits…"
Tess, oblivious to the old man's words, took a tentative step toward the shimmer, the warmth of his chest pulse guiding him. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if even the wind waited to see what the boy with golden hair and green eyes would do next.
And in the shadows far below, a Monarch stirred, sensing the rising flame of one who might one day challenge the Realms themselves.