The black dust of the Kael’Zyth desert wrapped around Arien like an incandescent veil, though no visible flame burned. Each step sank his boot into the fine, cold sand, as if glowing coals had been ground down to powder. The horizon wavered with mirages: living towers of heat that drifted away as he advanced. Through the deadly silence, a low whisper repeated itself — the echo of the Static Flame, the fire that leaves no warmth behind.
He remembered the night when he first witnessed the idea of fire without flame.
— “It’s not the heat that kills,” Khron taught in a hoarse voice, “but the emptiness it leaves behind. The static flame consumes neither wood nor flesh; it devours the will to live.”
Arien shook his head, trying to dispel the caress of painful memory. The desert stretched on, monotonous, but he did not walk alone: he carried with him the fragment of black stone, kept in his pocket, pulsing in time with his determination. With each pulse, he felt a twinge in his bones, as if the relic longed to escape and return to the hands of those responsible for the destruction of Mahran.
When the sun reached its zenith, the heat became a perfect illusion: Arien did not sweat, and yet he felt the air heavy, charged with a lethal energy. It was then that he saw, between two dunes, the shadow of a silhouette. It seemed to be a bent man, cloaked in an almost translucent robe, as if woven from smoke. Arien approached cautiously.
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“Who walks in the desert of flameless embers?” asked a frail voice, deep as a distant drum.
Arien raised his spear and, beneath the hood, the eyes of the hermit Khron gleamed with recognition. He had not aged a day since the stories of Arien’s childhood; his face still bore the marks of someone who had spent decades studying the mystery of the elements.
“I’ve come seeking answers,” said Arien, keeping his spear steady. “About the Static Flame… and about those who control it.”
The hermit smiled, though it was a joyless smile. He stepped closer and, with a slow gesture, placed his hand on Arien’s shoulder. The sand beneath their feet gave way, and for a brief second, Arien felt the heat of a flame — never burning, yet scorching within.
“Before you learn the name of the fire, you must feel its contradiction,” Khron murmured. He drew from his cloak a piece of black wool and wrapped the crystal fragment in Arien’s hand. “This desert is the altar. Endure seven hours of walking without rest, and at nightfall, drink the water from the hidden well beneath the red stones. Only then will you be able to see the Static Flame.”
Arien lifted the wool-wrapped crystal. The object pulsed more strongly, casting a shadow of silent flames across his palms.
Before he could ask a question, Khron turned toward the east, where the dunes formed a labyrinth of crimson rocks. “There you will find the well — and perhaps the first piece of your secret past. But be careful: the echoes of the desert do not forgive those who seek power without heart.”
As the hermit vanished into the slippery haze of the desert, Arien felt, for the first time, the weight of his mission. It was not enough to survive the path; he had to confront the very fragment he carried, face it as a mirror of his pain, and decide whether it would consume him… or drive him forward.
With his fist clenched around the spear, he took the first step toward the crimson labyrinth, ready to face the silent embers and prove that his oath would not be melted by the fire that never burned.