Chapter 2 Iron and ash

The journey began at dawn, when the first rays of the sun illuminated the silhouette of the black guardians on the hill. Asha, her hands bound by thin copper chains, walked barefoot behind the imperial tribune's carriage. Each step on the parched earth seemed to call for her decision. Behind her, the ashes of the hearth still drifted in the wind like sacred dust without an altar.

Silence reigned among the other tributes. There were five of them: two men, an elderly woman, a child, and Asha. No one spoke. No one cried. In the Ezen Empire, even despair had to be silent.

The landscape transformed as they advanced: from low hills and adobe ruins to wastelands, and further ahead, the sound of a great obsidian structure rising on the horizon like a dagger buried in the skin of the world.

"Is that the Fortress?" the boy asked softly.

A guard answered her with the back of his spear, striking the wagon railings.

"Slaves don't ask. They only obey."

Asha didn't look at him, but she heard his low groan. He wasn't her brother, but something inside her broke as if he were.

Hours later, they passed through the gates of the Empire.

They were made of charred bones, interlaced with strands of black iron. It wasn't an ornamental structure: they were real. Ancient Keepers, defeated enemies, traitors, and forgotten prophets. They were all there. Their names carved in dead languages ​​that burned at the touch of a glance.

They were taken to the marshaling yard, where the Marks awaited. Slavery began not with shackles, but with the fire that sealed identity.

A figure approached. He was dressed in a gray cloak, faceless, and carried an iron rod with the symbol of the Ashen Eye.

"Name," he said.

"Asha of Kareth," the Keeper answered without hesitation.

"She is no longer 'of' any place. Here, it will be what the flame decides."

The man plunged the staff into the burning brazier until the mark glowed orange. Asha swallowed. No one prepared her for this moment, though her whole life pulled her toward it.

"Knee."

She knelt. She extended her left arm without being asked.

The burning metal touched her collarbone, with a hiss that wasn't just that of burning flesh, but something deeper: as if ash responded to the touch.

She screamed, but not from the pain. It was from the sight.

For a second, her mind wasn't there. She saw a field in flames. People running. A winged figure with eyes like embers reached out... toward her.

When the mark retreated, she was trembling.

"Did you see it?" the cloaked man asked, his eyes glowing beneath his hood.

"What?" the other said.

"The flame does not lie. You have touched a memory."

But Asha didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the smoldering symbol that now marked her skin: three intertwined lines, like burnt roots. She was no longer a daughter. She was no longer free.

Now she was a slave to memory.

Days later, Asha was assigned to the Temple of the Silent Stone, one of the oldest sites in the Empire. Her role: to guard the ash corridors, clean the altars, and memorize the names of the dead inscribed in the marble.

Slavery in the Empire wasn't always brutal on the body. Sometimes, it was brutal on the spirit. Every day, she was required to recite a thousand names in a low voice while the extinguished embers listened to her.

"To memorize is to remember, and to remember is to serve," said the Temple Matriarch, a woman who seemed made of dust and smoke.

Asha obeyed. But she didn't forget.

During the nights, she dreamed of the winged figure. Sometimes she saw it weeping ash. Other times, it seemed to call her name. Kael. Sometimes she heard that name whispered through the fire.

One night, when she was alone cleaning the south corridor, the stone beneath her feet lit up. Not with light, but with memory.

An image emerged from the ash: a battle. Warriors of fire. A Keeper dragging a spear made of ancient words. And suddenly, a face. A man. Or a young man. Or a flame.

"Kael," she whispered, not knowing why.

The image dissipated. But she remained paralyzed. Not out of fear, but out of a certainty.

The ash had chosen her.

A week later, the Matriarch sent her to the resonating pits: circular chambers where fragments of ancient memory were stored, captured in black rocks suspended over glowing embers. The job was simple: clean the obsidian with resin oil, without looking too closely.

But Asha looked.

And when she did, she saw a different field. She saw a slave similar to herself, centuries before, rising up against her masters. She saw flames dancing in the sky. She saw the name of a rebellion written in smoke.

She felt the ash creep into her skin.

"You're not like the others," said a voice from the doorway.

It was him.

Tall, wearing the ceremonial armor of a Lesser Custodian, though without symbols. His face was young, but his eyes were ancient. A scar crossed his right cheek, as if the fire had touched him but not consumed him.

"Who are you?" Asha asked. Without speaking, only with signs.

"I'm just a memory... still alive," he said.

And he disappeared.

That night, she didn't sleep.

She felt the mark on her collarbone vibrate, as if something inside her were awakening. She knew then that her slavery wasn't total. That somewhere inside her, freedom still burned.

She remembered her mother. Her voice. Her eyes. The whisper before she left: "Never burn completely."

Now she understood.

In the Ezen Empire, the flames didn't just consume bodies. They consumed history. Memory. The soul. But something had changed.

The ash had begun to speak to her.

And Asha, daughter of ashes, was not willing to remain silent.