Ashen Vale had learned three truths growing up in the Lower Districts:
One—never trust a floating shadow.
Two—never touch a glowing thing.
Three—never speak your name near a dead zone.
Tonight, he would break all three.
The rain hadn't stopped for nine days. Ashen counted.
He sat beneath a rusting tram skeleton, the ruins of a skyrail that once ferried people across the levels of Tiered City 5. Now, the only passengers were rats and memory echoes. Water dripped steadily from a shattered beam above, pooling in a crate beside him. That was his drinking supply. He'd carved the word "Clean" into the plastic lid with a broken chip card.
Ash pulled his coat tighter. It was too big—salvaged from an older boy who'd disappeared after a Red Mist storm. The coat had burn holes in the left sleeve and an iron sigil stitched over the heart: an open eye with a line drawn through it. A Corp warning symbol. Dangerous Memory Exposure. He kept it anyway. The coat was warm. And it didn't ask questions.
He was thirteen today. Not that anyone would know. Or care.
Except for the voice.
"Ashen Vale."
He froze. The voice was behind him, female, whisper-quiet, and wrong.
No footsteps. No breath. But she knew his name.
He turned.
There was nothing there—only shadows, graffiti, and dripping concrete. But the shadows weren't right. One hovered just a moment longer than the others. Floating. Not connected to any wall, body, or light.
A floating shadow.
Rule one. Broken.
Ash slowly stood, slipping his hand into the coat. He had no weapons, only a shard of silver glass. Dreamglass. Sharp enough to cut magic. If this was a trick from the Upper Districts, he wasn't dying quietly.
"Ashen Vale," the voice said again, louder this time.
This time, he saw it.
The air in front of him... cracked.
Cracked. Like glass beneath pressure. A fine spiderweb spread out midair, glittering faintly. The space behind the crack shimmered—something was trapped inside. Or trying to get out.
Ash should have run. Every root-taught instinct screamed at him. But the crack whispered. It sounded like... his mother.
"You're not real," he whispered.
Then the crack bled light.
A single drop of fire dripped from it, hitting the ground without sound. Where it landed, the concrete hissed and sprouted embers—tiny floating sparks shaped like letters.
They hovered.
A-S-H-E-N.
He stared. Then the second drop fell.
Ash reached out.
Rule two. Broken.
He touched the ember.
The world tore in half. Memory is a fragile thread.
Ash felt himself yanked through space without movement. No sensation of flying, or falling—just being ripped between layers of something older than time. His ears rang with whispers, like children singing underwater. Images poured through his skull:
- A boy in silver armor screaming on a battlefield made of bones.
- A girl made of mirrors crying beneath a burning sky.
- A tower of flame cracking the moon in two.
None of them were him.
But all of them felt rooted to his name.
He landed. Hard.
Stone met his knees. Cold. Real.
Ash gasped and looked up.
He was inside a chamber. Black stone walls curved into a dome above, covered in glowing veins of gold. Symbols he couldn't read pulsed slowly along the ground. In the center was a pedestal, and on it, a single floating ember.
It pulsed like a heartbeat.
He approached.
"Ashen Vale," a voice said.
Not from around him. Not behind him. Inside him.
The ember spoke.
"You are the last cradle."
He staggered back. "What are you?"
"I am your memory." The ember pulsed.
"I don't remember you."
"You will."
Ash stepped forward. His mind screamed again. But the ember didn't burn. It radiated warmth without heat, like something meant to comfort.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because your world is forgetting itself. And you still remember how to listen."
Then the ember shattered.
Light exploded outward, slamming into Ash's chest. He screamed as the world bent around him, folding into a singularity of sound and color and language he'd never learned but somehow understood.
The last thing he saw was his own shadow rising from the ground—taller, older, burning.
Ash woke in a cell.
Steel walls. A humming barrier of light at the entrance. His coat was gone. So was the dreamglass shard. But not the ember.
It pulsed inside his chest.
"You're awake." A new voice. Human. Male. Dry as dust.
Ash turned.
A man in long gray robes stood behind the barrier. He had silver-threaded hair, one blue eye, and one empty socket filled with flame.
"Name," the man said.
Ash hesitated.
"Ashen Vale."
"Classified Root Type: Ember-Class. Emotional-conceptual hybrid. Memory-born." The man tapped a panel. "You're not supposed to exist."
Ash stood. "Where am I?"
"Cradle Academy," the man said. "Tower Nine. Orientation begins in one hour."
"I didn't sign up for any academy."
The man smiled. It was not kind.
"Your Root Spell did."
The barrier dropped.
Two guards entered. One wore a sword made of stitched paper. The other had no eyes, only glowing tears. Both grabbed Ash and dragged him to his feet.
"Wait! I didn't do anything!"
"On the contrary," said the robed man. "You broke into a Root Chamber older than this city. You awakened an unbound spell. You crossed three memory wards. And you called it by name."
"I didn't mean to!"
"Intent doesn't matter. Bond does."
Ash struggled. The guards didn't even flinch.
"This is kidnapping!"
The man raised an eyebrow. "You live in a district where children vanish daily. Consider yourself promoted."
Ash's heart pounded.
"I just want to go back."
"Back to what? Rain? Hunger? Shadows?" The man stepped closer. "No, Ashen Vale. You are Rootbound now. You belong to the flame."
The ember pulsed again.
Ash gritted his teeth.
"Then tell me who you are."
The man stopped.
"Crow," he said. "Seventh Seat. Headmaster of Cradle Academy Tiered City Five."
He leaned in.
"And you, Ashen Vale, are a very dangerous boy."
Ash glared at him. "Why?"
"Because you touched a flame that wasn't meant to burn.
As the guards dragged him through the shining halls of Cradle Academy, Ash saw other students staring. Some whispered. Some pointed. A few looked scared.
He passed a window and stopped.
The city stretched out below, layers upon layers of lights, storms, and towers. And above—skyships. Floating schools. Shattered stars.
The world had changed while he slept.
And something inside him whispered:
This is only the beginning.