"A promise made in fire, broken in blood"
Prologue: The Ashes of Promises
The battlefield was silent, but the air still carried the weight of screams.
Aelys stood at the edge of a cliff, the cold wind pulling at her tattered cloak. Below, the remnants of a forgotten world stretched out—a graveyard of broken spires and scorched earth. The horizon burned with unnatural light, casting long shadows that danced like specters of the dead.
Behind her, the faint sound of footsteps disrupted the stillness. She didn't need to turn to know it was him.
"You always choose the dramatic view," Evander said, his voice smooth and sharp, like the edge of a blade.
She tightened her grip on the shard in her hand, its light pulsing faintly. The small fragment of energy had cost her everything—her home, her family, her soul. And now, standing on the edge of annihilation, she wasn't sure if it had been enough.
"It's not drama," she said finally, her voice low. "It's clarity."
Evander chuckled softly, but the sound held no warmth. "Is that what you call it?"
She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. His gray gaze was as cold as ever, but there was something beneath it now—a flicker of something she couldn't name. Not kindness. Never that. But something close to understanding.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asked, her tone sharp. "To bring me here. To force me to choose."
He tilted his head, his smirk faint but dangerous. "You make it sound like I had all the control."
"Didn't you?"
For a moment, his expression faltered, and in that fleeting crack, Aelys thought she saw the truth. Not the predator she had grown to despise, but something far more dangerous: a man bound by the same chains he had placed on her.
"You think I'm free?" he asked, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That I enjoy this?"
The shard in her hand flared, its light cutting through the darkness between them. "If you didn't, you would have stopped by now."
He laughed, a low, bitter sound. "And you would have walked away. Yet here we are."
The wind howled around them, and Aelys felt the weight of the choice pressing down on her. Behind Evander, the ruins of the world they had destroyed together loomed like a shadow of their sins. Ahead, the cliff's edge offered nothing but the promise of the unknown.
"We end it here," she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
Evander's smirk disappeared, replaced by a look she had never seen before—fear. "Be careful, Aelys," he said softly. "You don't know what ending looks like."
"I don't need to know," she replied, her grip on the shard tightening. "I just need it to stop."
The silence that followed was deafening.
And then, she stepped forward, the shard burning brighter than ever.
The last thing she heard was Evander's voice, sharp and desperate, cutting through the void.
"Aelys—don't!"
But it was too late.
Present
The horizon was a jagged line where desolation met the sky. What once had been a world teeming with life now lay in ruins, its scars visible in the broken spires that jutted toward the heavens like the ribs of a dead beast. A golden haze clung to the air, dust from the War of the Ashes that no wind could dispel, a constant reminder of humanity's fall.
The city of Cyrinthia, perched precariously on the cliffs overlooking the Ashen Wastes, was a paradox. It was a refuge, its towering walls built with the precision of Cinderen architects, gleaming black stone that resisted time and destruction. But it was also a cage, where every breath taken by its inhabitants was owed to those who ruled above them.
The Cinderen.
Immortal. Unyielding. Born from fire and ash, the Cinderen had emerged during humanity's darkest hour, offering salvation when no one else could. In exchange, they demanded promises—oaths forged in desperation and sealed in blood. Those who swore their allegiance were bound by it, their lives forfeit should they falter.
A Fragile Peace
A century had passed since the War of the Ashes, but its consequences lingered like an open wound. The Cinderen's rule was absolute, their presence a double-edged sword. They enforced peace between the human territories, but their terms were ruthless. Promises had become currency, and to break one was to invite ruin—not just for the oathbreaker, but for all who depended on their word.
Cyrinthia thrived under this fragile peace, its streets alive with merchants hawking wares and children chasing dreams that weren't their own. But beneath the surface, resentment simmered. Whispers of rebellion traveled like smoke through the alleys, carried by those too desperate to care about the consequences.
The Cinderen, for all their power, were not gods. They could bleed. They could be hurt. And if the whispers were to be believed, they could be destroyed.
A Story Begins
At the heart of Cyrinthia, a towering monument known as the Pillar of Promises stood as a testament to the oaths that held the city together. It was here that Aelys had first sworn hers, though the memory was a blur of firelight and desperation.
She remembered the boy, though—the one she couldn't save. His face haunted her dreams, a reminder that promises had a cost.
And now, standing on the edge of this broken world, she felt the weight of all those oaths pressing down on her. The Cinderen called her kind reckless. Impulsive. Weak.
She would show them what humanity could do when it had nothing left to lose.
Chapter 1: The Ink of Promises
The wind screamed through the narrow alleys, carrying scraps of paper and whispers that dissolved into the night. Aelys moved forward, her shoulders hunched against the icy rain, one hand clutching the crumpled parchment in her pocket. Every step echoed against the dripping walls of the Borderlands, a place no one willingly visited. It wasn't a city; it was a fracture—a place caught between here and elsewhere.
She stopped before a crumbling structure, its blackened windows staring back at her like hollow eyes. No light. No sign. Just a heavy wooden door, its surface etched with roses—thorny and withered. Her breath fogged the air as she hesitated, her fingers tightening around the fragile slip of paper.
"Promise your soul, and it will be done," the man had said. His voice, cold and without inflection, still echoed in her mind. She hadn't believed him then. Now, standing here, she wasn't sure if she believed herself.
The parchment crinkled in her grip, a sound too loud in the oppressive quiet. It bore no instructions, just a signature and a smear of ink that pulsed faintly, as though alive.
Aelys pressed her hand against the door, the rough carvings biting into her palm. It opened without a sound, revealing a dimly lit room filled with the scent of damp stone and candle wax.
At the far end of the room, a figure sat behind a desk. He didn't look up as she entered.
"Close the door," he said, his voice smooth, like velvet stretched too thin.
She obeyed, the click of the latch sealing her fate.
The man was writing, his pen gliding across a ledger with precision. He wore no cloak, no robe of shadows, just a simple black coat. His hair, dark and slightly unkempt, fell over his face as he worked. It struck her as strange—this mundane appearance in a place so extraordinary.
"You have it?" he asked, still not looking up.
Aelys swallowed. "Yes."
"Good." He set the pen down, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. They were gray, like smoke that had forgotten its fire. "Bring it here."
Her steps were hesitant as she approached, pulling the parchment from her pocket. The air seemed heavier near him, the candles flickering as though struggling to stay alight.
He took the parchment from her hands without ceremony, his fingers brushing hers. She flinched—it wasn't his touch that startled her, but the cold that seeped into her skin, sharp and unnatural.
"This is your promise?" he asked, holding the parchment up to the light.
"Yes." Her voice was steady, but her heart was anything but.
For the first time, he smiled. It wasn't kind.