Tales of flame and void

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Prologue: The Flame That Never Was

The sparring hall was quiet—

save for the crackle of torches mounted high above.

Flames danced freely, roaring and retreating with each breath of wind.

Atiya stood alone at the center.

Fists clenched. Brow furrowed. Breathing uneven.

A ring of elders watched from the gallery above.

Their silence pressed down like stone,

their judgment louder than any words.

At the front sat Yaishna Yaisha—

arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp.

She had been patient.

But now, even her silence tasted like disappointment.

> "Focus," she said.

"Call it. Your flame."

Atiya closed his eyes.

Heat stirred in his chest—

slow, thick, like a boil refusing to burst.

He could feel it.

The legacy of Yaisha.

The birthright of every bloodborn child of flame.

And yet… nothing.

His breath caught as he forced his hand forward.

A spark flickered at his fingertip.

It twitched—

and died.

He tried again.

But what stirred inside wasn't fire.

It was something else.

Cold. Slippery. Shifting.

A pressure built behind his eyes, clawing at the inside of his skull.

His fingers trembled.

The air around him warped.

Space bent—folding like crumpled paper.

A marble tile cracked beneath him—

no, it folded inward.

A scream echoed from above.

Yaishna leapt down before the others could react,

pulling two observers away from the forming tear in the floor.

Threads—translucent, veined, alive—

unwound from Atiya's shoulders.

They shimmered, tense and humming,

as though sewing the room itself to his trembling bones.

The torches blew out.

Silence returned.

But this time, it suffocated.

Atiya collapsed to his knees, gasping.

Yaishna approached slowly.

She knelt beside him—

voice quiet, but firm.

> "That… was not a flame."

Atiya didn't look up.

> "I tried," he whispered.

"I did everything right."

She placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… truthfully.

> "I believe you.

But that thing inside you—whatever it is—

it is not Yaisha."

His voice cracked.

> "What if… I can manipulate space?"

She sighed.

> "Well. You surely can."

She stood, brushing dust from her cloak.

> "You're returning to ANSEP tomorrow.

Say hello to the Commander for me—it's been a while."

Her footsteps echoed as she walked away.

The torches re-lit themselves, one by one.

Atiya remained kneeling,

alone in the flickering glow.

---

Atiya Yaisha.

Second son of the great Yaisha line—

a family renowned for their dominion over flame magecraft.

But unlike the others,

he bore no fire.

A disappointment.

Though none dared say it aloud.

Instead, his gift lay elsewhere:

spatial manipulation. Thread-weaving.

Rare. Dangerous. Unnatural.

It should have made him exceptional.

But all he felt was hollow.

The flame was never his.

And even his sister—

the greatest of their bloodline—

watched him now with quiet concern.

> "Flame consumes," she once said.

"Thread remembers."

Now, his thread only trembled.

> "Yeah," Atiya muttered.

"I just want to rest."

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