The Reluctant Oracle of Emberfell

The god died in the back room of the Emberfell tavern, and he chose Wren to carry what was left of him. She had only gone in to change the ale casks. She found instead an old man dissolving into embers, who gripped her wrist with a strength that scorched, and whispered a single sentence before he crumbled: "The Ashen King rides at the next full moon, and only the one who bears my voice can name the hour of his fall." Then the visions began—kingdoms burning, banners she did not recognize, a throne of black glass, and her own face reflected in a thousand terrified eyes. Wren was seventeen. She could barely read. By morning, three separate riders had arrived at the tavern asking for "the new Oracle," and each wore the colors of a different king. She hid in the cellar with a kitchen knife and the dead god's voice murmuring futures behind her eyes, and understood that whatever she said next—true or false, brave or afraid—would send armies marching. She had never wanted to be anything but a girl who poured ale. The full moon was fourteen days away.