The Feather of Emberhawk
They say the Emberhawk was the last creature born of flame — its feathers lit fires in the hearts of kings and crumbled empires with a blink. But most people say it’s a myth. Most people don’t know what I know.
I found its feather.
My name’s Riven. I was born in the gutters of Lanthra, a city that trades memories like coins. Want to forget your heartbreak? That’s two silver. Want to learn how to sword fight? That’s five memories and a favor to the Guild.
I had nothing. No memories. No name, even, until the orphan matron found me screaming beside a shattered fountain. She called me Riven, like the crack in my voice.
The Day I Found the Feather
It was buried under ash behind the old shrine of Valcoran. Nobody went there anymore. The gods are gone — or asleep, depending on who you ask. But the shrine still stood, barely. And something burned there that night. A soft, golden flicker. Not fire. Not really. But warm. Alive.
When I reached for it, I didn’t feel heat. I felt weight. Like history. Like power.
It was a single feather. Long. Molten red and orange. It shimmered when I breathed near it. My fingers trembled when I picked it up.
The world changed after that.
Flame and Shadow
At first, I hid it. I tucked it in a piece of cloth and kept it beneath my mattress. But dreams started. And not just mine. The other orphans began sleepwalking. One girl kept murmuring in her sleep: "The ember returns. The ember returns." Creepy, right?
And then came the shadow-men. Not quite men. Tall. Bone-white. With mouths but no eyes. They whispered through the walls. They could smell it, I think. The feather.
I ran. I ran with the feather wrapped in three layers of spellcloth and a charm of silence. It didn't help much.
Meeting the Emberhawk
They found me at the edge of the Mire. That's where the earth burns under your feet. Where the old war left scars that never healed. I was ready to throw the feather into the mud and vanish forever.
But then it came.
The sky cracked. Literally. Like a thunderstorm made of stained glass. And out of that crack came light and fire. Not fire like from a torch. Fire that sings. Fire that remembers your name. Fire that knows your pain.
The Emberhawk.
It landed beside me. Towering. Radiant. And silent. Its eyes were stars. And I held out its feather, not knowing what would happen next.
It bowed its head. And I knew I had passed some kind of test.
The Burning Path
It gave me a choice. I didn’t hear words, but I understood. Keep the feather, and become a vessel for its fire. Return it, and forget everything. Go back to a safe, small life.
I chose fire.
And now I burn. Not like dying. Like living fully. I walk the old roads now. Roads even the Empire forgot. I see ghosts. I speak with trees. I light dark places with a single breath.
The world is breaking. But I’m not scared anymore. Because the Emberhawk chose me. And I choose to burn back.
Enjoyed this tale? Discover more magic here:
0 Comments