Dawn arrived like a ghost—pale, hesitant, and all too fragile. The feeble light seeped through the cracked, soot-streaked windows of the sanctuary, casting long, trembling shadows across the cold stone floor. Each shaft of light felt like a fragile promise, easily broken. Outside, the slag fields sprawled endlessly—a wasteland scorched and hollowed by time and devastation, a landscape where the earth itself had been burned to its bones.
I pushed myself upright from the rough cot, my body stiff and sore as if I'd spent years trapped in some unyielding grip. The ember pulsed faintly beneath my shirt, its subtle warmth a steady companion against the chill that wrapped itself around my skin. It was more than just a light—it was a fragment of a lost world, a stolen star cradled deep within me, whispering a secret that refused to be silenced.
The sanctuary was thick with silence, but it wasn't the peaceful kind. It was brittle and sharp, like thin ice over a dark abyss, trembling on the edge of breaking. Beneath that quiet lay a restless tension, a low hum of energy coiling in the air, ready to spring loose. The Scorched—the ragtag band of survivors who'd taken me in—moved like shadows around the room, their voices hushed, their eyes darting, always watching, always wary.
I felt their unease keenly, as if it were a physical weight pressing down on me, and yet in their mistrust, I glimpsed something fragile and fiercely guarded—a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, the stolen ember could mean more than survival. It might mean salvation.
I stepped into the main chamber where Lira stood, her figure sharply outlined against the dim glow of old, battered monitors. She traced fingers over a weathered map spread out on the table, the lines she followed winding like veins through the desolation. When her eyes met mine, there was a softness there, but it was edged with urgency.
"They're moving," she said quietly, no need for preamble. "The watchers. The broken. They've heard our signal. They're coming."
The words hit me like a fist. "Our signal? What signal?"
She nodded toward a device sitting on the table—a strange contraption of rusted metal and cracked glass, part radio, part relic from a time I couldn't remember. "We sent a message. A warning to anyone else still out there. Survivors, resistance cells. But the watchers intercepted it. They know where we are now."
My heart hammered hard against my ribs. "The watchers… What exactly are they?"
Lira's eyes darkened. "They used to be human. Once. Now, they're something else—twisted by the breach, corrupted by the rot. Half machine, half nightmare. They hunt the stolen stars. They seek to burn out the light so the darkness can swallow everything."
Cold dread settled deep in my gut. The sanctuary that had felt like a refuge now seemed precariously fragile, its walls paper-thin against the approaching storm.
Joran came forward, his movements slow, deliberate. His face was lined with years of suffering, his voice worn but steady. "You must understand, this ember is no ordinary flame. It carries memory, power. The power to heal the breach—or to tear the world apart."
I looked down at the tiny flicker against my chest. It pulsed, faint and alive, like a heartbeat. "Why me? Why was it given to me?"
Joran's eyes searched mine, a flicker of pain in their depths. "Perhaps it didn't choose you, but this world, through you. You are broken—scarred by the breach like the ember itself. And broken things…" He paused, the weight of his words pressing down like the heavy air before a storm.
Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath us, a distant but unmistakable rumble that echoed through the sanctuary. The watchers were coming. The fragile calm shattered like glass. The Scorched hurried, scrambling to ready their weapons, barricading entrances with whatever scraps of steel and stone they could find. The tension in the air was electric, buzzing with imminent violence.
I clenched my fists, feeling the ember respond with a flicker of heat that spread through my chest and down my arms. The stolen star inside me was alive, restless. It pulsed faster as if warning me of the battle to come, as if it knew this was no longer a fight for survival alone.
Outside, the ruined landscape seemed to hold its breath. The slag fields were silent, but the silence was pregnant with threat. From the edges of the horizon, shadows stirred—those hollow-eyed watchers, drawn like predators to the faintest spark of light.
Joran's voice cut through the mounting panic. "We do not just fight for ourselves. We fight for the memory of the stars. For the hope buried deep beneath the ash and ruin."
His words were both a comfort and a curse. I could feel the ember's warmth flicker again, stronger this time, almost defiant.
The Scorched formed lines by the broken windows, gripping weapons that looked as fragile as the sanctuary itself, but their determination was ironclad. Among them, Lira moved like a shadow, her face set in a grim mask as she prepared the ancient radio for a final transmission—one last attempt to warn others before the watchers closed in.
I stood alone in the centre, feeling the stolen star's heat bloom through me. The weight of it was crushing, yet it gave me strength, a connection to something vast and unknowable.
A sudden crack echoed through the walls—the first breach. The watchers were here.
The air thickened, became almost viscous with the scent of smoke and decay. Their footsteps were heavy, unnatural, the grinding of their limbs against the earth a sickening chorus. I could see them now through the broken windows—tall, warped silhouettes moving with eerie, mechanical grace, faces obscured by twisted metal masks, eyes glowing faintly with cold, black light.
The ember blazed hotter against my skin, sending sparks of warmth racing through my veins. It was alive. It was hungry. It was calling.
And I was the keeper of its stolen light—the spark that could ignite a war to save what was left of the stars, or doom us all to darkness.