The road to my old home no longer exists on any map. Even the paths and trails themselves have since all but disappeared, buried and covered by brush and overgrowth. Finding the way back is no easy task.

The road winds through forgotten hills and beneath a canopy of dark woods that now choke the sun from the soil. No birds sing here. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. My destrier, Embermane, snorts at the scent of rot that lingers in the bark, in the stillness, and maybe… even in me.

I ride alone.

Dressed not as a king, but like the boy I used to be—old boots, brown breeches, a worn gray tunic, a faded cloak, and only what I’m able carry with me. I leave my escort at the edge of the vale. This is not their place. I must venture forth alone. This ruin belongs to the ghost of a peasant child who once dreamed beneath the starry sky, long before it burned red with the fire of war.

Sunset bleeds through the trees as I crest the rise and see it again.

My old cottage.

Abandoned. Splintered. Familiar.

The roof sags inward, like the bent spine of an old man long tired of holding a heavy weight. Shattered windows gape like broken teeth, and the door is still locked, though there is surely nothing left for the thief or bandit to steal.

I dismount and toss my sack to the soft ground outside. It lands with a hollow thud, too heavy with things I no longer need at present: parchment, coin, supplies, dried meat. I did not come here to be nourished. I did not come here for comfort.

The scent of blood greets me before my fingers touch the latch, though I know it’s not a smell any man or beast would be able to detect.

I force the door open, and it greets me with a groan that sounds too much like the deep sigh I’ve been holding. Inside, decay and chaos reign supreme over the home. The furniture lies broken, fragments of wood scattered and splintered across the floor. The hearth is long dead, its stones cracked and its base lined with ash, dust, and old wood. Leaves blanket the floor where blood stains once dried—old blood, unseen but mine nonetheless. I remember.

This is where I died. But I kept on living.

I walk in silence, each step a memory.

Here is where I played games on the floor with my mother and sister.

Here is where my mother read me stories and recited her favorite poems before sending me off to bed with a full belly and a full heart.

Here is where my father taught me the value of hard work, providing for the ones under his care, and doing honest work with his hands and by the sweat of his brow.

I find the mirror still nailed near the cold hearth. The glass is dirty and streaked with the years, fractured like the spiderwebs that now adorn the remaining shelves and every corner of the room. My reflection stares back at me in pieces—crownless, older, and no less cursed. Behind my eyes—ash, ember, and something hollowed.

They say curses come in many forms.

Some are rituals. Some are spells. Some are words.

Mine is memory.

I turn around and pace to the far end of the room, and there I see it: the family portrait, once hung proud by the door. It's still there, half-slid behind a beam, edges burned from some long-forgotten fire. I wrench it free.

Mother’s eyes still hold warmth. Father’s arms are still crossed, his expression stern but whole and full of purpose. And between them, a young girl, sweet and innocent, and a boy—small, wild-haired, smiling like he hadn’t yet learned what it meant to fight. And to lose.

I set it down beneath the mirror and sit beside it.

The dark woods creak outside.

Something stirs inside me. Something sad. Something somber. A sort of inky blackness rising to the surface of my mind’s waters. I do not cry. I did that years ago when the militia first took me—when mercenaries came for soldiers and food and left with young men and torch in hand. I remember my first thought to try to hide until they had left. But something inside me told me to face it bravely. My father told me as much as well.

The boy in the portrait never grew up.

But I did.

They say a king must never look back.

But sometimes, to understand the forge, you must return to the first strike of the hammer.

And mine… was here.

The light has nearly gone now.

Only embers of the sun now filter through the broken ribs of the cottage, falling in long golden lines across the rotting floor. Dust dances in them like forgotten ghosts, and for a moment, I wonder if they remember me.

I stand.

The floor groans beneath my weight, as if in protest. But there is nothing left to protest. No laughter, no stern voices, no warm stew to hear bubbling in the pot. Only the hollow echo of a crownless boy wandering the bones of what he used to call home.

I gather what I can.

Dry kindling from beneath the hearth. Broken chair legs. The remains of the table where my mother once sat me down to eat at the end of a long day.

I set it all in the center of the room.

One last look at the mirror—my fractured reflection—and then I turn it face-down.

The family portrait I place atop the pile, gentle, like a burial. The boy in the picture looks upward still, as if watching the open sky.

I draw a flint from my pouch and strike.

Once. Twice. A spark flares.

The fire catches.

The fire is quiet at first, uncertain. Then it remembers its purpose—remembers me—and roars to life. Orange teeth bite the beams, the walls, the past. The room glows, and shadows dance in fury. Or maybe celebration.

I step back, out through the warped door.

Embermane watches me with flame-colored eyes, still and steady.

Behind me, the cottage groans again, louder now. Beams crack. Smoke billows like rising stormclouds. The roof folds inward with a long, mournful sigh.

I do not look away.

The fire consumes what the years could not. Blood. Dust. Pain. It all goes into the forge now.

This place raised me.

It buried me.

And now, it frees me.

The flames light the dark woods like a second sunset, even brighter than the first. The boy I used to be is gone now—burned into ash, scattered on the wind. But I do not feel hollow. I feel clean.

I feel alive.

As the last of the roof caves in and sparks rise toward the stars, I stand—not as a king, not as a warrior, but as a man.

As the fire climbs higher, devouring the rafters and the last remnants of a life long buried, I speak—not to the ashes, but to the boy who lived here.

“Goodnight,” I whisper, my voice rough. "You can rest now. I’ll carry the flame from here."

The roof collapses with a final scream, and the sparks rise like a thousand souls set free.

I do not look back again.

Behind me, the past burns. Before me, the world awaits.

I was forged in the fire.