The Emberbound Oath

The Old Man’s Warning

Werrin’s workshop smelled of iron, oil, and the faint bitter tang of herbs drying over the small stove in the corner.

Caelen had been here countless times, but never with his shirt half-burned and ash clinging to his skin.

The old man shut the door behind them, dropping the wooden bar into place. “Sit,” he said.

Caelen obeyed, lowering himself onto the worn bench by the worktable. His hands still trembled, not just from the run back, but from what had happened in the street. The medallion hung heavy against his chest, its heat fading but not gone.

Werrin moved quickly, checking the shutters, then pulling a thick leather-bound book from a high shelf. He set it down with more care than Caelen had ever seen him use with anything that wasn’t sharp or dangerous.

The old man’s hands were steady, but his eyes… his eyes looked like they were counting down to something.

“What was it?” Caelen asked finally. “That thing, the beast”

“An Ember wolf,” Werrin said. “Haven’t seen one in decades.”

“You knew about them?”

“Everyone in the old cities knew.” He opened the book, its pages filled with cramped handwriting and faded illustrations of creatures made from flame and smoke. “They were bred in the Ember Wars. Controlled by the Crown. Or… so they thought.”

Caelen leaned forward, tracing the lines of an old sketch, the same arched back and long jaws he’d just seen in the street. “And it came here. To Hallowford. Why?”

“That’s the wrong question.”

“Then what’s the right one?”

Werrin looked at him. “Why did it run from you?”

The workshop felt smaller all of a sudden.

“I don’t know what happened,” Caelen said. “It was about to”

“You had flame on your hands.”

“I didn’t”

“I saw it, boy. The villagers did too. That’s why half of them are outside right now, whispering.”

Caelen’s mouth went dry. “They think I brought it here?”

“They think things they’ve been told to think their whole lives. That Emberborn are dangerous.”

The word hung in the air like a dropped hammer.

“I’m not”

“You wear the medallion. You channeled the flame without burning.” Werrin’s gaze dropped to the faint scorch mark still visible on Caelen’s palm. “You may not like the word, but the fire doesn’t care what you call it.”

Outside, voices rose. A knock rattled the shutters, not polite, more like a demand.

“Werrin! Bring him out!”

Werrin didn’t move. He reached under the worktable and pulled out a small pack. “There’s a path east. Follow it until you reach the river, then cross at Stoneford. There’s someone there who owes me a favor.”

“Why can’t I stay?”

“Because they won’t let you.”

The pounding on the door grew louder. Caelen’s heart raced.

Werrin shoved the pack into his hands. “Go out the back. Keep to the trees. Don’t light anything, not even a fire to keep warm. The flame will find you on its own.”

Caelen hesitated. “You’re not coming?”

The old man gave a thin smile. “I’d only slow you down.”

Another shout came from the front, angrier this time. Werrin’s hand tightened briefly on Caelen’s shoulder. “Run, boy. And whatever you do, don’t trust the first hand that offers to help you.”

Caelen slipped out the back door, into the night.

The air was cooler now, but the smell of smoke lingered, clinging to him like it knew his name.