Nyghtrayne Writes

「 ✦ Part I - The Pyre ✦ 」

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ The bells began before dawn. Their solemn toll rolled across the rooftops of the town, through quiet streets still cloaked in mist, over the barracks where soldiers stirred from uneasy sleep, and into the chapel where candles burned before statues of the Holy Light.

No one mistook their meaning. For it was not rung in victory or worship. No these bells sung for another reason... Judgement.

By the time that the sun rose, the cathedral square had become a sea of crimson and earthen tones of those who came to witness what was to come.

Scarlet Crusaders stood in disciplined rows, polished plate catching the pale light of morning. Priests murmured quiet prayers beneath their breath. Farmers, merchants, widows, and children gathered shoulder to shoulder behind iron barricades, whispering rumors they scarcely dared believe.

"It cannot truly be her..."

"High Inquisitor Roseingrave?"

"They say she summoned demons."

"No... I heard she denounced the Light itself."

"Impossible."

The whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat fields. Many not believing what they were seeing.

At the center of the square stood a pyre unlike any the city had ever built. Its timbers rose nearly fifteen feet into the air, stacked with deliberate care by hands that had performed this grim duty many times before. Dry oak, pine, and pitch had been woven together until the structure resembled a cruel monument rather than a funeral pyre.

Bound to its heart stood Maeve Roseingrave.

Even stripped of every medal, every sash, every symbol of office. Yet, she carried herself like the High Inquisitor she had always been.

Her crimson robes, faded and travel-worn from years spent upon distant battlefields, stirred gently in the morning breeze. Iron chains circled her wrists and waist, but she made no attempt to test them. Even at the quiet protest from her younger sister. There was no fear in her posture. Only exhaustion.

Her gaze drifted slowly across the crowd. She recognized faces.

There... A young priest she had once comforted after his first battle against the Scourge. An elderly woman whose grandson Maeve herself had saw to his funeral pyre. A scarred footman she had dragged from beneath a collapsing chapel wall years ago. Children who had once laughed as she handed them warm bread outside the cathedral kitchens.

They would not, could not meet her eye. One by one, they looked away. That was the hurt of that struck deeper than the chains ever could.

A procession emerged from the cathedral. At its head walked the Lord Inquisitor, crimson robes immaculate despite the damp morning air. In his hands rested a sealed scroll bearing the wax crest of the Scarlet Crusade. He climbed the platform with measured steps. A pause while he looked to Maeve briefly before turning his attention to the muttering crowd. His voice rang clear across the now silent square.

"Maeve Roseingrave." He paused, as though he was reluctant to speak the next words.

"Former High Inquisitor of the Scarlet Crusade." Once, that title had inspired hope. Today, it sounded like an epitaph.

"You stand accused of spreading false doctrine among the faithful. Of gathering a hidden fellowship within our sacred order. Of teaching that suffering is holy. That flame is worthy of reverence. That purification comes not through obedience..." His eyes hardened.

"...but through pain."

A murmur spread through the crowd.

The Brethren of Embers.

The words had become poison within the Crusade. A secret fellowship. A whispered prayer. A rumor passed between trusted friends.

No one had imagined its founder had stood among the highest ranks of the Order itself.

The Lord Inquisitor unrolled the parchment further.

"You are further charged with corruption, heresy, sedition, and consorting with powers unknown." He lowered the scroll.

"How do you answer?" Silence settled over the square. Maeve looked not at the man before her, but beyond him, to the towering cathedral she had devoted half her life to serving. She remembered scrubbing those stone floors as a young novice. The first sermon she had ever delivered beneath its vaulted ceilings. The joy of healing wounded soldiers. The tears of families she had comforted. She remembered kneeling before the altar, believing with every fiber of her being that the Light could reach even the darkest soul. She still believed it. Drawing a slow breath, she finally met the Lord Inquisitor's gaze.

"I answer..." Her voice was soft. So soft that many leaned forward to hear it.

"...that the Light has never feared the fire." A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.

"It is the fire," Maeve continued, "that reveals what survives." His jaw tightened.

"Renounce your teachings."

"I cannot."

"Then renounce the Brethren."

"I cannot."

"Confess your heresy."

Maeve smiled. One not in defiance, not in triumph, but with the quiet sadness reserved for those watching someone they love lose their way.

"My only heresy..." She looked across the sea of crimson tabards.

"...was believing that faith could survive fear." For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the Lord Inquisitor raised a single hand. The executioner stepped forward with torch in hand, staring at Maeve with a quiet apology. Then the torch touched the wood.

The pyre sprung to life.

Flames crawled upward in slow, hungry fingers, feeding upon pitch and timber before wrapping around the platform itself. Smoke climbed into the pale morning sky as heat washed across the gathered crowd. The fire climbed higher... Then higher still. Until Maeve disappeared behind a wall of living flame.

The crowd waited. They expected screams, cries even. None came. Instead... A voice. One that was steady, gentle. It was almost impossible to hear over the roar of the inferno. She was praying. Praying not for salvation nor for revenge. She prayed for those who had condemned her.

The words faded into the crackling blaze, carried upward with sparks dancing toward the heavens. Long after her voice had fallen silent...

The fire continued to burn...

「 ✦ End Part I ✦ 」

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「 ✦ Part II - The Ashes ✦ 」

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By the time the last flames surrendered to smoldering coals, the sun had long since disappeared beyond the western hills. Darkness settled over the town with an uneasy stillness. The execution grounds still radiated heat, and the scent of charred timber clung to the evening air. Wisps of smoke curled lazily toward the stars as the great pyre groaned beneath its own weight. One final crack echoed through the square before the structure collapsed inward, sending a shower of dying embers drifting into the night.

No one spoke. The gathered Scarlet Crusaders watched in silence. With some stared into the ashes with grim satisfaction and others avoided looking altogether. Among them stood young Brother Matthias, scarcely twenty winters old. He had joined the Scarlet Crusade believing every tale of heroism told within Lordaeron's battered walls. He had polished High Inquisitor Roseingrave's armor before campaigns, carried her books during sermons, and once, as a frightened novice, found comfort in the quiet reassurance of her hand upon his shoulder.

He had watched her burn with his stomach twisted in knots.

"It is done," whispered the priest beside him. Matthias swallowed hard with uncertainty.

"It does not feel done." The older priest said nothing. Neither of them looked at the pyre again.

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The Lord Inquisitor descended the wooden platform without ceremony. His crimson robes were untouched by soot despite standing before the inferno for hours. His expression betrayed neither triumph nor regret, only the practiced composure expected of one entrusted with passing judgment. Behind him followed the executioners. With a pause, one of them hesitated with a glance back to the pyre itself before speaking.

"My lord." The Lord Inquisitor slowed but did not turn.

"What remains?" The executioner glanced back toward the collapsed pyre.

"Very little."

"See that it remains so."

"My lord?"

"There will be no burial." His voice was calm enough to chill the evening air.

"No reliquary. No grave. No shrine. No relic." He finally looked back toward the smoldering ruins.

"Let memory die with the flesh." The order spread quietly among the gathered priests. With no one to question it. By midnight the square stood empty and only ash remained.

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Sleep did not come easily to the town, The taverns were quieter than usual. Candles burned later behind shuttered windows. Families spoke in hushed voices around their supper tables. Some called the day's events justice. Others refused to speak of them at all. An old baker crossed himself before closing his shop.

"I remember when she blessed my ovens after the Scourge came." His wife frowned and hushed him.

"But she did."

"Hush."

"She held our Thomas when the fever nearly took him." She reached across the table and squeezed his weathered hand.

"I know." Neither spoke another word that evening.

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Three streets from the cathedral, hidden beneath the crumbling cellar of an abandoned granary, seven figures gathered around a single iron brazier. Its flame was small. Deliberately so as to not catch attention to the gathering. It offered little warmth, but enough light to illuminate tired faces stained by tears. No one wore armor. No one displayed symbols. Only plain robes, travel cloaks, and the quiet burden of mourning.

Brother Aldric stared into the fire.

"It should have been me."

"No," Sister Aoife answered gently.

"It should have been none of us. Much less my sister..." Soon another voice broke the silence.

"She knew." Heads turned to the voice the broke to see the youngest among them. Clutching a worn leather journal against his chest like it was the last treasure they held of the woman who lead them.

"She knew this day would come." He opened it carefully, as though afraid the pages themselves might crumble. Maeve's handwriting covered every sheet. It was neat, precise, the script elegant and thought out. He cleared his throat.

"'There may come a day when those who speak of warmth are condemned by those who mistake fire for wrath.'" His voice faltered.

"'Should that day arrive, do not answer hatred with hatred. Tend the flame. Feed the weary. Remember the forgotten. The fire is never ours to command—only to keep.'" Silence followed. Brother Aldric closed his eyes.

"Even now..." He smiled sadly. "...she is still teaching us." One by one, they bowed their heads. No vows were spoken. No grand declarations filled the cellar. Only quiet prayer.

Outside, unnoticed by all, the wind carried handfuls of gray ash through the empty streets of town. Some settled upon rooftops. Some disappeared into the forests beyond the town. Some came to rest upon forgotten graves. As though the whole of Lordaeron itself had become her resting place. No one would ever know where the last remnants of High Inquisitor Maeve Roseingrave had fallen. And perhaps...That was fitting. For some lives cannot be contained within a tomb. They linger instead in every heart they once warmed.

Though none within that quiet cellar dared speak it aloud, each of the Brethren carried the same impossible hope. If even one ember of her faith remained alive within them...

Then perhaps... Just perhaps...

The fire had not gone out after all.

「 ✦ End Part II ✦ 」

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「 ✦ Part III - The Ember ✦ 」

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Rain fell upon the town for the first time in four days. It came without warning. With heavy clouds gathered over the mountains before dusk, swallowing the last traces of sunlight beneath rolling curtains of slate-gray. By nightfall, thunder echoed across the countryside, and rain swept over the city in relentless sheets.

The streets were emptied. Lanterns disappeared behind shuttered windows to keep from the rain. Even the cathedral bells remained silent. Only the rain dared disturb the place where High Inquisitor Maeve Roseingrave had been burned.

The pyre still stood in the center of the square... or rather what remained of it.

Its towering frame had long collapsed into a blackened mound of splintered, charred wood and pale ash. Water streamed through the broken timbers, washing gray rivulets across the cobblestones. By the morning, there would be little left. The wind and rain would finish what the flames had begun.

There was no grave, no monument, no memory left of the once High Inquisitor. Exactly as the Scarlet Crusade had intended.

Old Tomas pulled his cloak tighter against the weather. He had served the cathedral since before the Second War, long enough that few remembered when he had first arrived. Children knew him as the old gardener. Priests knew him as the man who lit the evening lanterns. Soldiers scarcely noticed him at all. That suited him well. Old Tomas liked it that way.

He carried his lantern carefully through the storm, shielding its little flame beneath one weathered hand.

"Come now," he muttered to himself. "Just the western lamps..."

Lightning flashed overhead. For an instant the square shone white as polished marble. Then darkness returned. Tomas stopped abruptly, feeling... off. His lantern swayed gently in his hand.

Something... Something was wrong.

He looked toward the pyre. As the rain fell everywhere. Upon the rooftoops and statues, across the cathedral steps and canvas awnings. Yet over the ashes... The drops simply vanished. They struck the air and disappeared in tiny curls of steam before ever touching the ground. The old man's breath caught and blinked hard. Not believing what he was seeing.

"No..." He shuffled closer. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, but the closer he came to the pyre, the warmer the air became. It was impossible. The fire had died days ago. Still he could feel heat upon his face.

He lifted the lantern. There, hidden deep within the heart of the ash, something glowed. It was not bright enough to cast shadows, not quite large enough to warm the square. Just only a tiny glow of an orange light. It was steady, almost patient even. No doubt it was alive. An ember. Tomas frowned.

"By the Light..."

He knelt carefully beside the ruined pyre. The warmth grew stronger, not blistering like the heat of a forge and not like the ravenous hunger of a wildfire. Instead it reminded him of evenings spent beside his wife's hearth many years ago, when winter storms rattled the shutters and the world beyond the windows seemed very far away.

It felt like comfort. The thought if it startled him. Why should this place feel comforting? Especially given what had happen days before. Though with out much thought, he reached toward the ember.

Before his fingers touched the ash... It glow seemed to have pulsed. Once. Like the beat of a heart. This caused Tomas jerked his hand away and watch. Emotions ran across his face. Shock. Fear. Comfort. Confusion.

Another pulse, stronger. The ash shifted. Not caused by the wind, not caused by the rain that could not break from the invisible barrier, but with in the pyre.

A faint crack echoed through the ruined pyre. Then another. The old man rose so quickly that he nearly stumbled backward. His lantern slipped from numb fingers. Glass shattered against the stones and its flame vanished beneath the rain.

Darkness soon swallowed the square with only the ember remained.

It brightened. Ash rose into the air softly. As though countless gray feathers had suddenly remembered how to fly. They circled the ember in slow, graceful spirals.

Tomas stared, unable to breathe. Within the drifting ash, shapes began to emerge.

The outline of a hand. The curve of a shoulder. A face... His heart pounded against his ribs. Every prayer he had ever learned fled his thoughts. He had buried friends. He had survived the Scourge. He had seen horrors enough for three lifetimes. And nothing... Nothing had prepared him for this.

The figure moved, only slightly. Just enough to cause Tomas to turn and run. He fled across the rain-slick square without looking back, his boots slipping upon the stones, his breath ragged with terror and awe. He never noticed that the rain no longer touched him. He never heard the whisper carried upon the wind. Nor did he see the last of the ash settle gently upon blackened crimson robes.

Silence returned as the storm eased. The rain became little more than mist upon broken stone. A woman knelt where the pyre had once stood. Her breathing, or at least the movement of it, was shallow. Every movement felt unfamiliar, as though she were borrowing limbs that no longer belonged to her. She looked down at trembling hands.

Pale, stained and bony, burned. The skin was cracked with blackened scars that spread like branches beneath winter frost. Between those scars... A faint orange glow pulsed slowly. She soon touched her chest. There was warmth, but no heart beat. It was quiet gentle. Its heat spread gently through her ruined body, filling empty lungs with smoke instead of breath.

Closing her eyes her eyes, she could see fragments of memory. Cold metal chains digging into her, the smell of pitch around her. Voices crying for judgment, eyes fill with betrayal, of fear. The pity from the executioner's eye when the torch hit the dried wood. The warmth of the flames and hearing her own voice whisper her final prayer.

Then... Nothing.

Bowing her head to the pyre, her hand resting on her chest still, still coming to terms with her own memory.

"I remember." The words were barely louder than the falling rain. She did not know what had answered her prayer. She did not know whether it had been mercy or judgment. She knew only one thing. The fire had not taken everything.

Slowly, Maeve Roseingrave rose to her feet. The cathedral stood before her, silent beneath the storm. Once, it had been her home. Now it was simply stone. She regarded it for a long while before drawing the charred hood of her blackened robes over her pale hair. There was no anger, no thoughts of vengeance, with out a single glance behind her, she walked into the rain.

When dawn came, the execution grounds were empty. The pyre had finally collapsed into ordinary ash. No footprints marked the mud, no ember remained, only warmth lingered upon the stones.

Years later, the old groundskeeper would swear until the day he died that he had witnessed a miracle. The Scarlet Crusade called him senile. The priests called him mistaken. Tomas never argued. Whenever they asked what he had seen that night, he answered with the same quiet certainty.

"I don't know what rose from those ashes." He would smile toward the nearest hearth.

"But whatever it was... ...it remembered how to pray."

「 ✦ End Part III ✦ 」

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「 ✦ Part IV - The Saint ✦ 」

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Gentle rain followed Maeve beyond the city gates, beyond the abandoned farms where broken fences leaned against crumbling stone walls, and into the lonely roads that wound through the forests of Lordaeron. The sky remained a blanket of slate, hiding both stars and moon, leaving only the rhythm of falling rain and the soft crunch of wet earth beneath her bare feet. She walked because she did not know what else to do.

Behind her lay the place where she had died. Ahead... she had no destination. The world felt strangely distant, as though she had awakened inside a dream she could neither understand nor escape. Every so often, she would raise a trembling hand before her face, studying it in the dim light of the storm. The skin was no longer smooth.

Where the fire had graced her, it had not healed. Thin fractures spread across the backs of her hands and disappeared beneath the sleeves of her ruined robes. Their edges were black as charcoal, while somewhere deep beneath them a faint orange glow pulsed with quiet persistence. Not bright enough to illuminate the darkness. Only enough to remind her it was there.

She closed her fingers into a fist. The glow vanished beneath scarred flesh.

"I should be dead."

By morning, the storm had passed. Mist clung to the earth, weaving between ancient oaks whose branches still bore the wounds of war. Here and there, abandoned farmhouses stood empty, reclaimed by ivy and silence. Once they had echoed with laughter, harvest songs, and the barking of sheepdogs. Now only crows remained.

Maeve slowed beside a narrow stream. Its waters ran clear despite the scars that marked the countryside, fed by springs untouched by plague. She knelt and for the first time since awakening, she looked upon herself. The woman staring back was a stranger. Gone was the gentle face that had comforted frightened children. Gone was the warmth that had softened the stern bearing of a High Inquisitor. Ash-blonde hair, once meticulously braided beneath a priest's hood, now hung in brittle, uneven strands, blackened in parts by flame.

Her skin... She reached toward the reflection. It was ashen, not the healthy complexion of a half elf touched by the Light, nor even the gray decay common among the Forsaken. It looked like old parchment left too close to a hearth. Darken, dry, cracked, burnt. One corner of her mouth had split where the fire had lingered longest, revealing a glimpse of darkened tooth beneath.

Her eyes... They were no longer blue. Within them glowed the quiet orange of banked coals. There was no rage or anger, only the reflection of confused shock. Maeve recoiled. The stream answered by breaking her reflection into a thousand fractured pieces. She remained kneeling long after the ripples faded. At last she bowed her head into trembling hands. A sob escaped her lips. Another followed. Then another. She mourned the life she could have had by the stream that showed her the truth of what she had become.

After some time, she picked up the pieces of herself. Turning her attention to the east. Each step going no where in particular. The road carried her eastward. Days blurred together and she no longer counted them. Hunger came, though not as sharply as before. She discovered she could eat, though she no longer needed to. Bread had little taste. Water no longer quenched a thirst she did not possess.

Sleep visited only in fragments, mostly just to rest, to be haunted by memory. When she closed her eyes, she saw flames. She heard the crackling of the pyre. The prayers of priests and the silence of friends who had looked away.

Always... The silence.

Sometimes she awoke reaching for chains no longer there. Other nights she found herself clutching at her chest. The ember always answered, steady and patient.

Near the end of the fifth day, or perhaps the seventh, the road climbed a gentle hill. There, nestled among wind-bent pines, stood the ruins of a small roadside chapel. Its bell tower had collapsed long ago. One wall had fallen entirely, allowing wildflowers to bloom where pews had once stood. Moss crept across cracked stone, and ivy embraced the weathered statues of forgotten saints.

Maeve stopped at the threshold. She knew this place. Not by its name but by its purpose. She had visited dozens like it during her years within the Scarlet Crusade. Places where weary travelers found rest. Where priests offered blessings before dangerous journeys. Where candles burned through lonely nights so no pilgrim ever felt abandoned.

She stepped inside. Every footfall stirred dust that had lain undisturbed for years. The altar had broken in two, yet remained standing through stubborn determination rather than strength. Maeve approached it slowly. Her hands shook not from fear of being in the chapel, bit from a nervous habit that echoed from when she was alive. Scarred fingers brushed dust from the fractured stone with surprising tenderness. The gesture came as naturally as breathing once had.

When the altar was clean, she knelt. Her knees met cold stone. Folding her hands, she closed her eyes and prayed. Not as a Flamespeaker. Not as something reborn from ash. Simply as Maeve, once a living half elf.

"Light..." Her voice faltered. The word caught painfully in her throat. She had spoken thousands of prayers throughout her life. Blessings before battle. Comfort beside deathbeds. Joy at weddings. Hope during famine. Yet never had the words felt so heavy...

"If You still hear me... I do not know what I am." The confession escaped in little more than a whisper.

"I remember the fire." Her fingers tightened together.

"I remember dying." Silence met with the stilled emptiness. Long enough that she almost rose to leave.

"I remember praying. And then...Nothing." Her voice broke. There was no revelation or chorus of song. There was no warmth of the Holy Light embracing her soul. Just... emptiness. If she could form tears, she knew they would fall. Abandoned.

"I served You. I loved You. I never asked for glory." She bowed lower until her forehead rested against folded hands.

"If this is punishment..." Her shoulders trembled.

"...then let me understand it." Nothing. Only silence.

Maeve remained there until the sun dipped toward the western horizon. She did not know how much time had passed when she finally opened her eyes. One candle sat upon the shattered altar. She was certain it had not been there before. It was old, half-melted, and much like the rest of the chapel, forgotten. Its wick was black with age. Maeve could not help but to stare at it. Even out of habbit, a breath she did not need escaped her lips.

The wick glowed gently before a flame started to grow. A single ember blossoming into a silent fire. Maeve froze when another candle caught. Then another. One by one, forgotten candles hidden throughout the ruined chapel awakened. Warm amber light chased away the gathering dusk.

Maeve reached toward the nearest candle. The fire did not shy away. Neither did it scorch her skin. Instead, it leaned gently toward her fingertips, as though greeting an old friend. Her eyes filled with emotion once more. Not with despair but of wonder. No voice spoke. No heavenly vision unfolded before her. Yet in the dancing flames she understood something she could not explain. The fire had not answered because she was worthy. It had answered because she had called. A faint smile touched her broken lips.

"So...I am not alone." She whispered.

She searched the ruined chapel until she found an old brass travel lantern buried beneath a collapsed bench. Its glass was cracked, its hinges stiff with rust, but after careful work it opened. With reverent hands, Maeve lifted the first candle from the altar. The flame neither flickered nor dimmed as she placed it within the lantern. She closed the little door. Warm light spilled through weathered glass. Outside, dawn's first rays crested the distant hills, painting the sky in gold and soft pinks.

Maeve rose to her feet. She looked once toward the road that led back to the town of her death. Then toward the countless roads stretching beyond the horizon. She had no church, no congregation, no home. Only a lantern and a single ember that refused to die.

Drawing her hood over her burned hair, Maeve stepped onto the road once more. She did not know where it would lead. Only that wherever darkness lingered... She would carry the flame.

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Autumn settled gently over Lordaeron. The forests that had escaped the worst of the Scourge traded their summer greens for deep crimson and burnished gold. Fallen leaves gathered along forgotten roads where pilgrims had once traveled, now walked only by refugees, merchants with too few guards, and those with nowhere else to go. Maeve became another traveler among them. Those who passed her remembered only a woman wrapped in blackened crimson robes carrying an old brass lantern whose flame never seemed to dim. No matter the weather, its warm amber light remained steady.

Some thought it enchanted.

Maeve never claimed it was.

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The first life she changed belonged to a child. His name was Edwin. He could not have been more than eight. She found him sitting beside the remnants of a burned farmhouse, knees drawn against his chest beneath a threadbare blanket far too large for his tiny frame. The smell of days old smoke still lingered in the air. His parents lay beneath rough stones at the edge of the field, their graves marked only by two simple wooden crosses.

Maeve approached slowly. Her voice remained soft with a guttural undertone despite years of silence.

"May I share your fire?" The boy looked around before his tired eyes landed on her.

"I don't have one." She smiled gently to his words.

"Then perhaps we should fix that." Gathering fallen branches, she built a small circle of stones before striking flint against steel. The kindling caught almost immediately. Soon, warm orange flames danced between them. Edwin stared with a bit of disbelief.

"I tried all morning." Maeve shrugged lightly.

"Sometimes fire listens." The boy frowned.

"To you?"

"No." She watched the flames sway in the evening breeze.

"To kindness." He considered that answer for a long while.

When she finally rose to leave the next morning, the fire still burned warmly despite the night's rain. Edwin would later tell anyone willing to listen that a burned priest had taught him how to keep hope alive with nothing more than dry wood and patience.

No one believed him.

Weeks became months. The stories multiplied. A caravan returning from Andorhal spoke of a mysterious traveler who spent the entire night tending fires so exhausted guards could sleep. A widow claimed an unknown priest rebuilt the hearth in her cottage before disappearing before sunrise. A pair of dwarven explorers swore they survived a blizzard because they followed the light of a lantern that should have been miles away.

Each story sounded different. Yet every description matched. Burned robes, orange eyes, smoke upon the wind, and a lantern that never failed.

Maeve never stayed anywhere long. She feared becoming known. Feared the day someone recognized the face that had burned in the town long forgotten to time. When villages offered her a room, she accepted only the stable. When innkeepers refused payment, she insisted on chopping wood before leaving. When priests asked where she had studied, she answered only,

"Lordaeron." It was never quite a lie.

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The first Forsaken she encountered nearly drew steel. He had once been a footman of Lordaeron. Now his armor hung crooked upon a frame claimed by death. One eye remained. The other was little more than an empty socket beneath a battered helm. They met upon an old stone bridge at dusk. The Forsaken rested one hand upon the hilt of his sword.

"You don't seem alive."

"No." Maeve inclined her head.

"You don't seem dead either."

"I know."

"What are you?" His good eye narrowed. She considered the question. Once she would have answered without hesitation. Sister of the Holy Light, a priestess, High Inquisitor, Servant of the Light... Now...

"I am still trying to learn." The answer caught him completely off guard. After a long silence, the old soldier barked a dry laugh.

"Fair enough." They shared a campfire that evening. They spoke of Lordaeron, of festivals, of the bells that once rang from every village at dawn. Neither mentioned the Scourge until the fire had nearly burned itself low.

"My wife..." the soldier began quietly.

"I don't know where she's buried." Maeve looked into the flames.

"Then speak her name." He hesitated before the name spilled from him. The silence that followed felt sacred. Maeve spoke no sermon or prayer for him. Just sitting in remembrance with the old solider. Before sunrise, the old soldier departed. Years later he would tell others that, for one single night, he had almost forgotten he was undead.

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Brother Aldric heard the rumors during winter. At first he dismissed them as grief often gave birth to impossible stories. Then more came, one after another. Always with the same details. A burned priest, blackened crimson robes, a lantern in hand with a fire that never died. He unfolded Maeve's old journal for perhaps the hundredth time. A single line caught his eye.

"Carry one ember through the longest night." His hands trembled.

"No..." Hope was a dangerous thing. It had already broken his heart once. Hope caused him to grab his cloak, tucking the journal safely inside his satchel. Soon he quietly left the town before dawn.

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The snow had begun falling when it happened. Maeve arrived at a crossroads where three wagons had become trapped in deep drifts. Families huddled together beneath blankets while fathers struggled to free frozen wheels. The children cried from the chill. The youngest had begun turning pale from the cold. Without a word, Maeve set down her lantern. She gathered broken branches from the roadside.

Soon a modest fire crackled at the center of the crossroads. The warmth spread far beyond what such a small blaze should have offered. One by one, the travelers gathered around it. No one questioned the burned woman tending the flames. Not while tiny hands slowly regained their color. An elderly woman looked toward Maeve with tired eyes.

"You must be some kind of holy woman."

"No." Maeve shook her head.

"Then why help strangers?" The woman smiled. Maeve looked around the fire. At frightened children. At exhausted parents. At old men whose hands shook from the cold. Then she remembered another fire. Another crowd. Another day.

"They once tried to teach me," she said softly, "that faith was measured by the enemies you burned." She gently placed another log upon the fire.

"I think..." The flames rose, warm and bright against the falling snow. "...it is measured by the warmth you leave behind."

No one spoke for a long while. The wind howled across the empty road. Yet around that humble hearth, strangers laughed. They shared bread and broth between trembling hands. Children fell asleep against their family members. And for that one blizzard night, no one felt alone.

An old grandmother watched the burned woman quietly feeding the fire. She leaned toward her daughter and whispered words that would travel farther than either of them could ever imagine.

"Look closely."

"Why?"

"Because one day..." The old woman smiled. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "...people will say they once shared a hearth with the Saint of Embers."

Maeve never heard the words. Before the first light of dawn reached the snow-covered road, she had already taken up her lantern and continued her journey east. Behind her, the fire burned until sunrise.

Those who had gathered there would tell the story for the rest of their lives. Each version grew a little different. Each telling added another detail. But every story ended the same way. On the coldest night they had ever known...

A stranger carrying an ember had reminded them what it meant to come home.