Firbargad: The Flame of the Mountain

In the highlands where mist clung to the cliffs and the sky split often with thunder, there rose a mountain the people called Firbargad. To travelers, it seemed only a jagged crown of stone, but to those who lived in its shadow, it was something far older and stranger—a sleeping guardian whose breath steamed in vents of smoke, whose heart glowed beneath the rock, and whose voice could be heard in the deep groans of the earth.

The villagers of Harnel told their children, “Respect Firbargad, for it was once a titan. It burned the darkness when the world was young. If it ever dies, so will we.” The mountain gave them rich soil, warm springs, and metals that shone like captured dawn. In return, they offered song, prayer, and silence when the earth trembled.

But one winter, silence was not enough.

The season came harsher than any living elder could recall. Crops failed, streams froze, and the animals that roamed the slopes grew lean and hostile. At night, when the winds howled, sparks flickered on the mountainside—shapes of ash and ember that prowled the woods, leaving trails of smoke in their wake.



Years passed. Eryna grew strong and restless. Other children feared her strange gaze, but she found solace sitting alone on the black slopes, where she swore she could feel a heartbeat beneath the stone. At night she dreamed of caverns vast and glowing, and of a voice, deep and weary, murmuring in a language she half-understood.

By her sixteenth year, the land was failing. Springs ran dry, forests withered, and the ember-creatures grew bold, attacking shepherds and hunters in the dark. The elders gathered and declared the truth: Firbargad’s heart was fading. Without its warmth, the valley would become a wasteland of stone and frost.

“We must leave,” some said.

“No,” said others. “This is our home. We will endure.”

But Eryna could no longer ignore the call in her bones. She told her mother, “If the mountain dies, so do we. I will climb to its crown and ask what it demands.” Her mother wept, but she did not stop her.

The ascent was long and cruel. The slopes were sharp with obsidian shards, the winds tore at her skin, and the air thinned until her breath came in ragged bursts. Yet she climbed, guided by that pulse she had felt all her life. At the summit, the earth split with a thunderous crack. A fissure opened, glowing with molten light, and a voice rose from the depths, shaking the sky.

“Child of fire,” it rumbled, “why do you climb to me?”

Eryna fell to her knees, though the stone burned her flesh. “Because your heart wanes, and without you we are lost. Tell me what must be done.”

The mountain groaned, like an old warrior stirring from sleep. From the fissure rose a towering eye of magma, vast and ancient, gazing upon her.

“For ages I have burned to warm the world,” said Firbargad. “But even titans fade. If my fire dies, so too will the valley. Unless…”

The voice trembled with longing. “Unless another carries the flame.”

Eryna’s breath caught. “You mean me.”

“You were born of my ember storm. You are already bound. But the burden is heavy. To bear my heart is to shorten your life. Your body will blaze with strength, but your years will dwindle. When you fall, your soul will return to me, and only then will I endure another age.”

The choice tore through her. She thought of her mother, of the children who played in the ash fields, of the elders who prayed for hope. She thought of the streams that once sang, the forests that once bloomed. She raised her chin.

“If it saves them, then I accept.”

The mountain roared, and the sky ignited. Fire spilled from the fissure, coiling like a serpent, and struck her chest. She screamed, yet did not falter. The flame burrowed into her heart, searing her blood, filling her veins with molten light. When the blaze faded, she stood trembling—but alive. In her hands burned a shard of living fire, a piece of the titan’s heart.

“Go,” Firbargad whispered. “Where you walk, warmth shall follow. Rivers will flow. Fields will rise green. The ember-spawn will bow. But remember: you are flame. And flame consumes.”

Eryna descended the mountain, her steps leaving trails of warmth in the snow. The villagers saw her eyes burning like twin embers, and they fell to their knees. Wherever she touched the earth, frost melted, and the air grew sweet. The streams gushed once more, and the fields drank deep of life.