"KINDLE AND RISE!"

  Flames spewed out in all directions, licking the cold air before settling into a steady, welcoming heat. The room brightened, shadows retreating to the corners as warmth pushed back the biting cold. The air was frigid, just as it had been on the night of his birth, but this time, it was not his father who conjured the fire—it was him.

  Dorian stood before the hearth, his hand still outstretched, fingers curled as if holding an invisible thread that connected him to the flames. His breath misted in the air, but already the room began to thaw, the frost retreating from the edges of the window, the chill loosening its hold.

  Behind him, Eyanna cradled a bundle of blankets, a child’s sleepy face peeking out. Her expression softened, a small, tired smile cutting through the lines of worry etched into her skin. She was older now—no longer the vibrant woman who had given birth to him thirteen years ago. The world had worn her down, carving its hardships into every wrinkle, every gray strand of hair.

  "Dorian, you’re getting so good at that. Your father would be proud," Eyanna said, her voice a mix of warmth and weariness.

  Dorian turned to meet her gaze. Her eyes held a blend of pride and sadness, a reflection of the life they led. This world was a harsh one, their role within it even harsher. The loss of Aaron had left a wound in their family, a hole that neither time nor warmth could fully fill.

  He let his hand drop, the flames obeying his will, still and calm. The boy in her arms stirred, a small hand clutching at the blanket. His brother—the last reminder of Aaron, the only memento left behind.

  The fire obeyed, but fire alone would not keep them safe. Not with winter closing in and the village elders whispering of wolves—both the four-legged kind and the ones that walked on two.

  In this world, when the leader of a family died, it often spelled doom for the rest. Without Aaron, survival had become a delicate balance, a tightrope stretched over a yawning chasm. Dorian knew that all too well.

  His mind wandered to the jagged edges of his past, memories sharp enough to cut. He thought little of his previous life now. If anything, he thought on it with regret—a festering wound that had yet to heal. Regret for his actions, for the heavy hand with which he had ruled. He had persecuted not only people but also ideas, stamping out those who dared to challenge him. He had outlawed magic, burned libraries, and silenced voices that spoke of change. His empire had stood as a monument to his control, and yet, all it had taken was a stronger will to bring it crashing down.

  But it wasn't just the persecution he regretted. It was the failures—failures that had clung to him like shadows, even in this new life. His failures had not been buried with his crown. They had bled through the veil of reincarnation, seeping into his new world. Aaron had died because of him, not by any blade he wielded but by the blade he had failed to raise.

  Because he had been too weak.

  The memory haunted him. The harsh winter winds howling through the trees. The deep snow that swallowed the world in a blanket of white. They had been returning from the market, their cart laden with what little food they could afford. Dorian had been walking alongside Aaron, his small hands red and raw from the cold. His younger brother had been bundled against Eyanna’s chest, his tiny wails muffled by the wind.

  The wolves came silently. Not the four-legged kind—though those, too, were rumored to prowl in the woods—but the kind that wore human skin. Bandits. Hungry and desperate, their eyes hollow, their words sharp as knives.

  Aaron had stepped forward, his broad frame blocking them from sight. "Take what you want," he had said, voice steady even as the bandits closed in. "But leave my family alone."

  Dorian had stood frozen, his feet rooted to the snow. He had known it then, even as the first blow fell—how small he was, how useless. The bandits hadn’t listened. They had wanted more than food. They had seen weakness and had sought to carve it out of Aaron’s flesh.

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  He could still hear the sound of fists on bone, the wet crunch as Aaron hit the ground. His father had fought, but they were many, and he was only one. Blood stained the snow, blooming beneath Aaron's broken body like a cruel flower.

  And Dorian had done nothing.

  He had watched, a boy trapped in a child’s body, too weak to matter. His lips had moved, a desperate whisper of the spell he had practiced over and over in secret. Kindle and rise. But the flames had not come. His magic, like his strength, had failed him.

  In the end, the bandits had left with their meager supplies, leaving nothing but grief and hollow eyes in their wake. Aaron’s chest had risen and fallen, his breath fogging the air even as life bled out of him. His final words had been a promise, a comfort. "Stay strong. Protect them."

  But those words had been a shackle. Dorian had not been strong. He had not protected them. He had let his father die, just as he had let his kingdom die in his previous life.

  But shields could only take so much.

  If you make enough mistakes, even the sturdiest defense would wear down. It would chip and crack under the strain, and eventually, it would shatter. Aaron’s Death had been that shattering. The loss was more than grief—it was the sharp reminder that even in this life, he had not escaped the cost of his weakness.

  Dorian’s hands tightened into fists, the knuckles of his small hands paling beneath the strain. The fire behind him responded, the flames snapping, a brief surge of heat that rippled through the room. He sucked in a breath, forcing the embers of his anger to settle.

  He needed to get stronger. To train, to learn more than he had before. But how?

  His magic was still raw, a spark instead of a blaze. He had mastered the simple warmth of fire, but fire alone would not keep them safe—not from wolves, not from bandits, and not from the cruelty of winter. He needed more than parlor tricks and hearth magic. He needed power—the kind that turned away blades and bent the world to his will.

  But who could teach him? His old life had been a tapestry of knowledge and tradition, but in this world, he was nothing. There were no mages' guilds in the village, no ancient tomes hidden beneath the floorboards. Magic was a whispered secret, a lost art kept alive only by those with enough skill or desperation to wield it.

  His thoughts drifted back to the village elders, to their stories told by firelight. They spoke of ruins deep in the forest, the bones of a civilization long buried beneath the roots and stone. Some said the ruins were haunted, others that they were cursed, but Dorian knew better. Old places held old secrets—and where there were secrets, there was knowledge.

  A plan began to take shape. The ruins could hold more than just echoes of the past. If he could find even a fragment of a spell, a rune, or an artifact, it might give him a starting point. He could train in secret, away from prying eyes, honing his skills until the fire did more than obey—it would serve him.

  But he needed to be careful. The village would not understand. They saw magic as a tool for survival, not a weapon. His mother, Eyanna, had already lost a husband—she could not afford to lose a son to mad dreams of power.

  His jaw set with a new resolve. He would go to the ruins, learn what he could, and practice in the shadows. He would become more than a boy who warmed the hearth. He would become a shield—one that wouldn’t shatter. No longer would he hide behind one.

  Not this time.

  Dorian pushed himself to his feet, his small frame brimming with a purpose too large for his age. His hands still trembled, not with fear but with the weight of his new vow. He moved to the window, the frost still clinging to the edges of the glass, and peered into the woods. The forest stretched out, a tangle of shadows and secrets. Somewhere in there lay the ruins—ancient bones of a forgotten world, a place where power might still linger, waiting to be claimed.

  But it wouldn’t be easy. The woods were dangerous, filled with wolves and whispers. The elders told tales of those who went too deep and never returned. And if the ruins truly were cursed, if they held the remnants of old magic, then he would be walking into a place where even the air might be hostile.

  His mother, Eyanna, would never allow it. She would look at him with those tired eyes, the weight of her grief hidden behind a smile, and tell him to stay safe, to stay small, as if that could keep the world’s claws at bay. His brother needed him, too—another fragile life that depended on him to be more than a child.

  But staying safe had only brought them ruin. Staying safe had let Aaron die.

  He would not stay safe. He would not stay small.

  "The plan unfolded in his mind, deliberate and sharp. He would begin gathering supplies—scraps of bread, a thin blanket, anything he could take without being noticed. Each day, he would edge closer to the woods, learning the paths under the guise of collecting firewood. And when the time was right, he would slip away, a ghost in the dawn, and find the ruins.

  But for now, he would wait. Bide his time. He would be the dutiful son, the quiet shadow, until the moment his path led away from the warmth of his home and into the cold unknown.

  "Kindle and rise," he whispered, the words a promise to himself.