THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : The Dying Light
Chapter 1: The Night the Stars Went Out
The stars had been dying for a hundred years.
Kaelen remembered when there were thousands of them — a river of silver fire spilling across the night sky, so bright that even the poorest farmer could find his way home without a lantern. His grandmother had told him stories about the old days, when the constellations had names and the heavens had meaning. When the gods still walked the earth and magic flowed through the veins of the land like blood through a living body.
That was before the Blight.
Before the Veil.
Before the stars began to fall.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the Cinder Cliffs, the wind whipping his cloak around his legs, the salt spray from the Iron Sea stinging his face. Below him, the village of Dusk Hollow sprawled along the rocky shore — a huddle of thatched roofs and crooked chimneys, its streets empty, its windows dark. The fishing boats sat in the harbor like skeletons, their masts stripped bare, their hulls cracked and rotting.
There used to be fifty families in Dusk Hollow.
Now there were twelve.
And by spring, there would be fewer.
“You’re brooding again.”
Kaelen didn’t turn. He knew the voice — rough as gravel, warm as hearth-fire.
“Aren’t I allowed?” he asked.
“Allowed, yes. Productive, no.” His sister, Lyra, stepped up beside him, her red hair tangled by the wind, her freckled face smudged with soot. She was two years younger, but she looked older now. They all looked older. “The council is meeting. They want to talk about the tithe.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened.
“Let them talk. There’s nothing left to give.”
“The Crown disagrees.”
“The Crown can go hang itself.”
Lyra laughed — a short, bitter sound. “You sound like Father.”
“Good. Someone should.”
They stood in silence, watching the waves crash against the rocks. The sea was black tonight, blacker than it should have been, as if the darkness had seeped up from the depths and stained the water. Kaelen had heard stories about the sea — old stories, from the time before the Blight, when sailors crossed the Iron Sea to trade with the kingdoms of the south. They said the water had been blue then. Bright and clear and full of life.
Now it was a tomb.
“The tithe isn’t the only thing they want to discuss,” Lyra said.
Kaelen turned to look at her.
“What else?”
She met his eyes. Her gaze was steady, but he could see the fear beneath it. The same fear that lived in every heart in Dusk Hollow. The same fear that had been growing for a hundred years.
“They want to send someone to the capital. To petition the king for relief.”
“The king doesn’t care about us. He’s never cared about us.”
“Maybe not. But if we don’t ask, we’ll never know.”
“And who do they want to send?”
Lyra was silent.
Kaelen felt his stomach drop.
“No.”
“They voted unanimously.”
“I’m not going.”
“You’re the only one who can. You’ve been to the capital. You know the court. You know the language.”
“I know that the capital is a nest of vipers. I know that the king’s advisors would rather see us starve than lift a finger to help. I know that going there would be a waste of time and a waste of life.”
“So you’d rather stay here and watch us all die?”
The words hung in the air, sharp and cold.
Kaelen looked away.
He thought of the children. The hollow eyes, the thin limbs, the cough that never went away. He thought of the old women who had stopped smiling. The young men who had stopped hoping.
He thought of his father, lying in his bed, his breath rattling in his chest, his skin the color of ash.
“No,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t.”
The council met in the longhouse — a drafty stone building at the center of the village, its walls blackened by centuries of smoke. The elders sat on benches along the walls, their faces carved with worry, their hands clasped in their laps. There were twelve of them now. Twelve out of fifty.
When Kaelen walked in, they fell silent.
He felt their eyes on him — their hope, their fear, their desperation. He wanted to tell them that he wasn’t the answer. That he was just a fisherman’s son, a failed soldier, a man who had lost more than he could carry.
But he didn’t.
He walked to the center of the room and faced them.
“I’ll go,” he said.
The elders exhaled.
Lyra smiled.
And Kaelen felt the weight of a hundred years settle onto his shoulders.
The journey to the capital would take three weeks by road — longer if the winter storms came early. Kaelen packed light: a change of clothes, a loaf of bread, a waterskin, a knife. His father’s cloak, threadbare but warm. His mother’s locket, empty but precious.
He said goodbye to Lyra at the edge of the village.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I’m always careful.”
“You’re never careful.”
“Then wish me luck.”
Lyra pulled him into a hug. Her arms were thin but strong.
“Come back,” she whispered.
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
Kaelen looked at the sky. The stars were gone now, swallowed by the darkness that had been creeping across the world for a hundred years. There was only the moon — pale and cold — and the memory of light.
“I promise,” he said.
He turned and walked into the dark.
The road to the capital was called the King’s Way, but there was nothing royal about it anymore. The cobblestones were cracked, overgrown with weeds. The waystations were abandoned, their doors hanging open, their hearths cold. Kaelen walked alone, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground, his breath fogging in the air.
He passed through villages that were already dead — empty shells of buildings, their windows like hollow eyes, their streets silent. He saw the remains of fields that had once been golden with grain, now gray with dust. He saw the bones of animals that had starved, their ribs picked clean by crows.
The Blight had touched everything.
And it was spreading.
On the third night, he made camp in the ruins of a watchtower. The walls were crumbling, the roof half-gone, but the fire pit was still there, and there was wood enough to burn. He sat by the flames, watching the smoke rise into the empty sky, and tried to remember what hope felt like.
He couldn’t.
On the seventh day, he reached the outskirts of the capital.
Valdris was a city of spires and bridges, built on a series of islands connected by stone arches that spanned the Silver River. Once, it had been the jewel of the continent — a place of music and art and magic, where merchants came from across the sea to trade their goods and scholars came from across the world to share their knowledge.
Now it was a fortress.
The gates were guarded by soldiers in black armor, their faces hidden behind iron helms. The streets were patrolled by men on horseback, their eyes sharp, their hands on their swords. The people who walked the cobblestones moved quickly, heads down, shoulders hunched.
No one smiled.
Kaelen joined the line at the North Gate, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been here before, years ago, when he was a soldier in the king’s army. He had fought in the border wars, had seen men die, had killed men himself. He had left that life behind — or thought he had.
Now he was back.
And he was afraid.
“State your name and business,” the guard said.
“Kaelen of Dusk Hollow. I’m here to petition the king.”
The guard looked him up and down. His eyes were cold.
“The king is not receiving petitions.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“You’ll wait outside the gates.”
“The council of Dusk Hollow sent me. We’ve paid the tithe for a hundred years. We’ve sent our sons to fight in the king’s wars. We’ve never asked for anything in return. We’re asking now.”
The guard was silent.
Then he stepped aside.
Kaelen walked through the gates.
The palace of Valdris was a monument to everything that had been lost.
Its walls were carved with scenes from the Golden Age — dragons and heroes, kings and queens, battles won and kingdoms united. Its towers rose toward the sky like fingers reaching for the stars that were no longer there. Its gardens were lush and green, watered by magic that the rest of the kingdom could only dream of.
Kaelen was led through the great hall, past the portraits of kings long dead, past the tapestries depicting victories long forgotten, past the courtiers in their silks and jewels, who looked at him like he was a stain on the floor.
He stopped before the throne.
The king sat on a chair of black iron, his crown resting on his head like a weight he could not remove. He was old — older than Kaelen had remembered — his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. He looked like a man who had seen too much and done too little.
“Kaelen of Dusk Hollow,” the king said. His voice was thin, reedy. “You have come to beg.”
Kaelen’s hands curled into fists.
“I have come to ask,” he said. “My village is dying. The Blight has taken our crops, our livestock, our children. We have paid the tithe for a hundred years. We have sent our sons to fight in your wars. We have never asked for anything in return. We are asking now.”
The king was silent.
The courtiers whispered.
“What would you have me do?” the king asked.
“Send food. Send medicine. Send soldiers to protect us from the raiders who prey on the weak. Send something. Anything.”
The king looked at his advisors.
They looked away.
“I cannot,” the king said.
“Can’t or won’t?”
The room went still.
The king’s eyes flashed.
“You forget yourself, fisherman.”
“I forget nothing. I remember the promises your father made. I remember the oaths your family swore. I remember a time when the crown meant something.”
The king stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
“You speak of things you do not understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
The king walked toward him.
The courtiers stepped back.
“The Blight is not a plague,” the king said. “It is not a famine. It is not a curse. It is a warning.”
Kaelen’s blood went cold.
“A warning from whom?”
The king looked at the window. At the sky. At the darkness.
“The gods,” he said. “They are not dead. They are sleeping. And when they wake —”
He stopped.
His face went pale.
“When they wake, they will demand a price. A price we cannot pay.”
Kaelen felt the weight of the king’s words settle onto his chest.
“What price?”
The king met his eyes.
“A sacrifice,” he said. “The last of the old blood. The last of the magic. The last king of Emberwyld.”