In the valley deep below, in Quackingwax before the snow, the summer’s heat had baked the land to cracking stone—a single spark could doom the clan. By oath of flame, the Fireblade came, striding into the blaze to twist its rage. He whirled between the ember’s breath, carving pathways wide to starve its death. The fire gnawed itself away, while smoke coiled upward in a crown of grey. Through the crackling roar and blistered drought, he dove headlong into the beast’s dark mouth. The blade then flowed with blazing speed, lifting him high on the inferno’s creed. Sparks became wings at his command, carrying him skyward above the land. A fire-flier, he danced on the air, arcs of flame trailing everywhere. He soared through heat, a comet’s trace, the sword a sun no storm could chase. Each strike unbound the pyre’s might, turning ruin into radiant light. And when he fell, it was not to ground, but into fire’s arms where no chains were found. The valley watched, both hushed and awed, for flame itself bent to his law.
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