The morning sun filtered through the high windows of Embercrest Hall, soft and golden on the polished stone floors. Outside, the sky was a clear summer blue, the kind that made the world feel wide and full of promise. Yet Caleb's chest carried the heavy thrum of nerves beneath his tunic.
The day had come.
He stood at the base of the great staircase, a travel satchel over one shoulder, his boots freshly brushed and tunic newly pressed. Mirelle clung to his arm with small fingers, her lower lip trembling.
"You'll write?" she asked, eyes wide and watery.
"Of course I will," Caleb said gently. "Every week."
She nodded, but didn't let go.
Across the hall, Garron watched in silence, arms folded. He hadn't said much that morning, but he didn't need to. Caleb remembered every word from that night in the dining hall, nearly a year ago. The look in his father's eyes then had stayed with him longer than any scolding.
Today, Garron only offered a short nod as the carriage doors opened.
The Embercrest crest—twin flame towers entwined—gleamed on the lacquered side of the grand traveling coach. It was large enough for five, with redwood paneling and silver trim, drawn by two broad-shouldered mana-fed draft horses.
Rhydian was already seated, legs crossed, a thick book resting on his knee. His deep russet hair was tied back in a tight tail, and his expression was as unreadable as stone.
Veylan lounged opposite, boots propped up, twirling a copper coin between his fingers with lazy dexterity. His unkempt hair framed a grin that hadn't left since breakfast.
Elira adjusted her robes as she stepped into the coach, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the copper-toned fabric. Her golden eyes flicked to Caleb as he climbed in, narrowing just slightly before she turned to the window.
Caleb exhaled as the carriage began to roll.
He was on his way.
***
The road south twisted through hills and valleys, lined by thickets of violet-barked trees and soft green grasses that swayed in the wind. Fields gave way to forests, and forests to rocky bluffs where hawks circled high overhead. The trip to Firespire would take most of the day, and the Embercrests traveled in silence—at least for the first mile.
Then Veylan stretched and sighed dramatically.
"Well," he said, flipping the coin once more and catching it without looking, "this is cozy. A perfect little family field trip to the tower of terrors."
"Must you always talk like a bard before a fall?" Elira said without looking at him.
"I'm the voice of joy in an otherwise suffocating fog of seriousness," Veylan replied, casting a wink at Caleb. "Right, little brother?"
Caleb smirked, though he said nothing.
"You could at least try not to be a distraction," Rhydian said, turning a page in his book. "Some of us are preparing."
"For what? The dramatic unveiling of your favorite ink quills?" Veylan leaned forward. "Let the boy breathe. He's not walking into a dragon's den."
"Isn't he?" Elira said, finally glancing at Caleb. "He's the youngest of us to attend, and the only one whose control fluctuates when his emotions flare. If anything, Firespire will be far more dangerous than Wolf grove."
Caleb's jaw tensed. "I've improved."
Elira arched her brow. "Have you?"
Veylan laughed, kicking Rhydian lightly on the shin. "Careful, Elira. If you say it three times in a mirror, the Firebrand might show up and scorch your notes."
"I'd rather be scorched than bored."
"I'm sitting right here, you know," Caleb said dryly.
"Good," Elira replied, eyes narrowing again. "Then listen carefully. You'll be judged from the moment you step through the gates. By professors, by upperclassmen, and especially by our house name. Embercrests don't arrive in shadow—they arrive in flame."
Rhydian finally looked up, his amber gaze calm but firm. "She's not wrong. Your name carries expectations. Ours did. Yours will, too."
"I didn't ask to be an Embercrest," Caleb muttered.
"No one asks for the torch," Rhydian said. "But once it's lit, you carry it, or it burns you."
The carriage quieted again after that, save for the soft rattle of wheels over gravel and the occasional chirp of wind-chimes hanging from a tree near the road. Caleb leaned against the window, watching the landscape change.
He thought of Garron. Of the fire still flickering in his chest after all this time. Of the Veil, and the Heartstone they said was fading.
I will carry the torch, he thought, but I'll do it my way.
***
They crested the last ridge just before noon—and then they saw it.
Firespire Academy.
A towering citadel of gray stone and crimson glass, wrapped around the base of an obsidian spire that rose like a dagger into the clouds. Arched bridges connected outlying towers to the main keep, and banners bearing elemental crests rippled in the high wind—flame, frost, storm, and stone. Rings of protective wards shimmered faintly above the ground like glassy halos, etched in ancient runes.
Around the base of the spire, students gathered. Carriages and carts from all across the realm lined the outer circle, noble crests side by side with traveling wagons. Professors in long robes moved among the arrivals, directing traffic with glowing staves.
"It hasn't changed," Elira murmured. There was a flicker of softness in her voice—rare and fleeting.
"Smells like burned ink and hubris," Veylan added, grinning.
Rhydian stepped out first as the carriage halted, followed by Elira. Veylan vaulted over the door with a flourish and landed beside them in one smooth motion.
Caleb stepped down last.
The ground beneath him buzzed with quiet energy. The wind pulled at his cloak. The fire inside him stirred—but not wildly. This time, it hummed.
He looked up at the black spire reaching into the heavens.
So this was where the legends began.
And perhaps, where some ended.