The Heirs of Fire - 1. Bound by blood [REWRITING]

Prologue and word from the author

Hello everyone, and welcome to the first volume of my series "The Heirs of Fire."

This first volume, titled "Bound by Blood," is currently being rewritten. The words you are about to read are by no means final.

A French version of my text is available on my profile for those who might be interested.

The chapters with a title have been rewritten.

If you notice any typos or inconsistencies in my writing, please do not hesitate to let me know! Also, if you would like me to delve deeper into any particular topic, just tell me!

In summary, feel free to share anything you want with me! Your disappointments, your expectations, passages you liked or didn't like, visualization issues, etc.

Please remain kind :) Honesty does not mean cruelty!

Happy reading, everyone!

[The prologue is undergoing the beginning of a rewrite; the text is still not final :)]

I hope that returning readers will see the progress ;)

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"Let's walk in the woods while the wolf isn't there. If the wolf were there, he would eat us!"

In the night, this nursery rhyme echoed. A man sang it, gloomy, like a soul in torment.

This brave gentleman, who was walking alone, was a fifty-year-old lumberjack who had fallen a bit behind on his workday. He walked slowly, whistling on a lost path deep in the heart of the forest. His ardent lantern made a slight swinging motion between his swollen fingers.

His heavy and regular gait made the light of his small lamp flicker, and his heavy steps occasionally broke the dry, thin branches lying along the dark path.

The path he was taking was paved. Pretty ocher-colored stones covered it. They muffled the footsteps of those who walked on them and made the iron shoes of the horses clatter when they came. They were beautiful, flanked by the coats of arms of the owners of these lands, meticulously carved one by one. A monk's work.

Unfortunately, they were littered with twigs and rotten fruits that had fallen from the trees. It's normal, you might say. Yes, indeed. But it's a shame. The lumberjack couldn't enjoy it. He walked on, and all that his weak lantern illuminated were those pieces of wood.

The lumberjack walked.

With each step, the faint, feeble flame struggled not to go out. So small, it was disturbed by the fine evening breeze and the rough breath of its master.

It danced, waltzed, chaining the movements of a minuet and a forlane. It twirled, graceful, but it was getting exhausted. It was an infinite pantomime. A relentless struggle against the invincible. An eternal, inexhaustible enemy.

It constantly deformed its burning trunk, sometimes reduced to almost nothing, to avoid being overwhelmed by the wind. Zephyr itself loved to make the flame sing, and to silence it when it had enough. An unpredictable tyrant, a scourge.

Cruel Zephyr. Indomitable Zephyr.

The wind, the fire.

A perpetual seesaw,

under the yoke of our lumberjack.

He didn't seem too concerned about the glow of his lantern or its fierce battle against The Breath. He continued to roam the forest alone, his well-sharpened axe resting on his broad shoulder. He hummed a cheerful tune and let his mind wander.