Collected from the scorched remains of the Ember Vaults, these are the final diary entries of Larak Emberborn, Fire-touched chronicler of Thar Zûl, written in the twilight years after the Last Sky War.

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Chapter I: The Suffocating Dawn

Ashen Forge, 402 AE They say the morning in Thar Zûl is indistinguishable from dusk—only the direction of the wind gives hint to the time. Ash drifts down like silent snow, layering the blackened stones and my own skin. I rise from my cot, eyes burning, throat dry with sulfur. The great chasm beyond the Choir’s barracks belches a constant red glow, a reminder of the power we revere and the cage we cannot leave. As an apprentice of the Choir of Ember, I am meant to be grateful for the flame. The Ashen Disciple himself led us last night in recitation: “The flame endures, and so do we.” But I cannot forget the faces in the crowd—hollowed, desperate, some still marked by the burns of the Last Sky War. The Magma-Drakes roared above, their scales scarred and pitted, wings stirring tempestuous clouds of cinders over the ruined fortresses. Today, I am to assist Ash-Priestess Vhalra with the Ember Communion. I have heard whispers it is a rite not meant for mortals, but the Disciple insists all must witness the old ways. I dread the coming dusk, when the drums begin and the air grows thick with incense and fear. But my fear is not of the flame. It is of what the Choir will do if they sense my longing for escape. My mother once told me the world beyond the Ashen Forge was vast and green—tales forbidden now, reminders of a softer age. I have never seen a tree, but sometimes, in the curling smoke, I imagine their shape. —

Chapter II: The Communion of Embers

Nightfall, same day The Ember Communion was more than a ritual—it was a warning. Ash-Priestess Vhalra stood atop the basalt dais, her form flickering as if flame itself entwined her limbs. The Choir chanted, voices low and relentless, the words older than the forge. At her command, they brought forth the pyre—a shallow bowl of molten rock, into which obsidian tokens were cast. Each token represented a soul lost in the Last Sky War. Suddenly, the Magma-Drakes descended. I had seen them before, but never so close. One, I later learned, was called Vaustrix the Scarred, a beast larger than any siege engine, his scales blackened from a hundred battles. He bellowed as Vhalra called to the spirits beneath the ash. The earth trembled. They cast the tokens into the molten heart and demanded we kneel. Vhalra’s eyes found mine as I hesitated, and for a moment, I thought she sensed my doubt. But the ceremony continued. The flames rose high, reflecting in the cracked obsidian of the Choir’s symbol—the black sun with burning tendrils. Afterward, I tried to slip away, but Smolder-Eye blocked my path. His gaze is wild, unfocused—some say he dreams in flame, that he can see the future through the smoke. He whispered, “You do not belong, Larak. The ash does not cling to you.” His words haunt me. Perhaps he knows. Perhaps all of Thar Zûl knows, and they are simply waiting for me to ignite. —

Chapter III: Of Dragons and Chains

Three days later I have begun my plan. Rorgak Ironjaw, war-chief and dragon-trainer, has offered coin to any apprentice who dares fetch obsidian shards from the southern chasms, where the Ashwings nest. It is a perilous task—Ashwings are merciless, their breath a storm of smoke and scalding wind. But it is also the edge of our dominion, where the ash fields grow thin and the whispers of Duskfall Mire begin. If I can reach those borderlands, perhaps I can slip away. But first, I must earn Rorgak’s trust. Today, I watched him train the new warband. He bellowed commands, his voice echoing over the plains. The Ashwings wheeled overhead—forty or more, each a living tempest. For a moment, I caught the eye of one: a young Ashwing, not yet fully grown, scales a mottled grey. Its gaze held no malice, only confusion. I volunteered for the shard-gathering. Rorgak laughed, his teeth like broken flint. “You, scribe? The ash will eat you alive.” But he handed me a shard-pouch all the same. I write this now by guttering lantern-light, every muscle tense. Tomorrow at dawn, I descend into the chasm. If I do not return, let these words be my memory. —

Chapter IV: The Chasm’s Bargain

Dawn, southern chasm The descent was agony. Ash coated my lungs; the air shimmered with heat. Below, the obsidian fields gleamed—a thousand knives waiting to cut. I moved quickly, mindful of the Ashwing calls above. I found the shards easily enough, but trouble came swift. A shadow fell across the stones—a fully grown Ashwing, its wingspan blotting out what little light filtered through the ash clouds. I froze, heart pounding, as it landed before me. It did not attack. Instead, it lowered its head, smoke curling from its nostrils. I remembered the old tales: Ashwings respect courage, or perhaps desperation. “Great one,” I whispered, “I seek only to pass. I do not wish to serve the Choir.” Its eyes, ember-bright, regarded me. Then, with a gust that nearly sent me tumbling into the chasm, it leapt skyward—leaving a clear path to the far side. I ran, not daring to look back, clutching the shards. At the chasm’s rim, I gazed out: to the west, the blackened plains stretched toward nothingness; to the east, the faintest shimmer of green—could it be Galdrowen’s distant border, or only another trick of the ash? I buried the shards beneath a basalt outcrop, marking the spot. If I must return, I will not come empty-handed. But tonight, I will find a way to slip past the watchful eyes of the Choir. —

Chapter V: The Choir’s Shadow

Night, barracks They know. When I returned, Rorgak clapped me on the back, declaring me “ash-worthy.” But Ash-Priestess Vhalra summoned me to her sanctum. The air was thick with incense; her eyes, molten gold, never blinked. “You are not as you appear, Larak,” she said. “The ash does not cling to you.” The same words as Smolder-Eye. Had he told her? Or do the flames themselves whisper my thoughts to those who listen? She offered me a place in the Ember Communion—true initiation, she said. “The Choir is your family. The flame endures. All else is ash.” I bowed, hiding my trembling hands. But I cannot accept. Tomorrow, when Vaustrix the Scarred patrols the border, I will make my escape. I have watched the patterns—the dragon flies low at dawn. If I time it right, I may slip into the ruins beyond, perhaps even reach the wilds where the Choir’s grasp fails. If I fail, my ashes will join the rest, scattered by the endless wind. —

Chapter VI: Flight Beneath the Ember Sky

Dawn, the border I made my move as the first light bled through the ash clouds. Vaustrix’s roar shook the stones—he circled above, searching for threats. I crept along the ravine, heart in my throat. At the edge, I found the young Ashwing again, the one with mottled scales. It regarded me in silence, then—astonishingly—lowered itself, as if inviting me to climb atop its back. Desperation overcame fear. I scrambled onto the dragon’s back, clutching the spikes for dear life. With a thunderous beat of wings, we soared skyward, ash streaming past in burning ribbons. Below, I saw the Choir’s guards shouting, Rorgak waving his blade, Vhalra raising her staff. But the Ashwing carried me beyond their reach, out over the borderlands, where the ash thinned and the world grew wider than I had ever dreamed. For a moment, I was free—riding the wind, the fire, the hope of a new life. —

Chapter VII: Ashes and Memory

Unknown border, dusk The Ashwing left me at the edge of a stony ridge. I slid down, knees shaking, barely believing my escape. I watched as it turned once, exhaling a last cloud of smoke, before disappearing into the dusk. I am alone now, beyond the shadow of Thar Zûl. I do not know if I will find Galdrowen’s forests, or if the mists of Duskfall will swallow me. My lungs are raw, my skin still carries the mark of the ash. But I am no longer a pawn of the Choir of Ember. I am Larak Emberborn—free, if only for this night. If any find these pages, let them know: the flame endures, but so too does hope. Even in the land of ash, there are those who dream of escape. I will walk until the ash leaves my hair and the world grows green again.

—Last entry, recovered from the basalt outcrop on the border of Thar Zûl. Larak Emberborn’s fate remains unknown.

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