The price of flame

Alec Virell was born into a name carved in ancient light. The Virells were a legacy - a family known for magic that could bend the stars. His father, Alric Virell, was a master of elemental fire; his mother, Serina Virell, shaped the winds like silk. Their love story was legend, and their power feared across the magical realms.

But Alec was born with silence. Not the silence of humility or caution - but the silence of emptiness. No flicker, no spark, no surge of mana ever pulsed through his veins. At every examination, the Council of Grandmasters shook their heads. "The first powerless Virell in a thousand years," they'd whisper.

He wore his shame like a second skin. While others conjured flames in the palm of their hands at six, Alec failed to light a single candle. Still, his parents never looked at him with disappointment, only love. "There's more to power than magic," his mother often said. "And sometimes, the quiet ones surprise the world."

But that world was not kind to him.

Years later

A darkness had crept across the land. The sorcerer known only as Malrik the Severed had returned. Cloaked in shadows and blood magic, he threatened to collapse the balance between light and dark. He had once been one of the Grandmasters - until he strayed into forbidden arts and was cast out.

Now, he summoned armies from bone and shadow. Entire cities fell to his command.

Alric and Serina answered the call to arms.

"I'll return, my son," Alric promised, placing a fire-forged ring into Alec's palm.

"You are stronger than you know," Serina whispered, tucking a feathered charm into his coat.

But they never returned

Many moons later

Alec stood at the edge of the cliff, the Virell estate smoldering behind him. Smoke curled into the sky like serpents seeking the sun. Below, where once stood the proud spires of Eldwyn - the capital city - there was now only ruin. Blackened stone. Ash. Silence.

It had been three months since his parents vanished in the final assault against Malrik. No bodies had been recovered. No word from the frontlines. The Council of Grandmasters had declared them "Fallen in Flame." Memorials were carved. Songs were sung. But Alec did not mourn in ceremony. He mourned in solitude.

The ring his father gave him pulsed with warmth against his chest. And the feathered charm his mother had hidden in his coat-he hadn't taken it off once.

"You are stronger than you know."

Her voice haunted him.

But strength meant nothing without magic. And Alec was still the same: empty.

Or so he believed.

Until the night the shadows came for him.

It began as a flicker - a ripple in the moonlight.

He was gathering firewood behind the remains of the manor when the shadows stirred. They didn't move like men. They glided. Hissed. The air chilled. The trees bowed inward. And from the dark stepped a figure cloaked in crimson and void.

"Alec Virell," the creature rasped. "The last spark. How disappointing."

It raised a skeletal hand. From its palm bloomed black flame - sickly, unnatural. It surged toward Alec.

He didn't have time to scream.

Instead, something else happened.

The ring on his chest ignited. Not with fire, but with light - pure, golden, blinding. It leapt from his heart like a star being born, surrounding him in a dome of searing heat and protection. The black flame shattered against it like waves on a cliff.

The figure reeled back, shrieking.

Alec collapsed to one knee, gasping. He stared at his hands. They glowed faintly, as if lit from within.

What was that?

The shadow fled, leaving only the echo of its final words:

"The Severed will come for you... heir of the old fire."