The silence of the underground city pressed on Ashen's skin like a second layer, heavy and suffocating.
He stood at the threshold of something ancient—too ancient. The chamber before him stretched out like the remains of a sunken cathedral, carved from obsidian and bone-colored stone, its ceiling lost in shadows. Carvings covered every wall, layered in thick dust, though the symbols glowed with a faint red-orange pulse—like veins beneath dying skin.
And then, the figure stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked in robes torn by time. Its face hidden beneath a mask shaped like a flame. Its presence wasn't threatening—but it wasn't comforting either. It was still, too still, like it had been waiting there for a thousand years with nothing but silence for company.
"You carry what was never meant to be found," the figure said again. Its voice wasn't loud, yet it echoed through the cavern like a choir of whispers overlapping in perfect unison.
Ashen's body tensed, the golden gauntlet glowing faintly on his arm in response to the creature's presence.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Who are you?"
The figure took a slow step forward. "I am what remains of the Flameborn Order. The last ember of a forgotten age. I am the echo of fire—and you are its new bearer."
Ashen's eyes narrowed. "The Flameborn Order? Ravel mentioned them. Said they were wiped out centuries ago."
"And yet," the figure said, spreading its arms slightly, "here we are. You above, and I below. Both holding pieces of a legacy buried by fear."
Ashen took a cautious step closer, eyes scanning the chamber. Old altars lined the walls, some broken, others still burning with faint, unnatural fire. There were weapons, too—swords fused with crystal, hammers etched with molten veins—all untouched by rust.
"You're not… alive," Ashen said, voice quiet.
"Not as you understand it," the figure replied. "I am a memory. A will anchored to this place by the last ritual of the Flameborn. When our order fell, we did not vanish—we buried ourselves beneath the ash, waiting for a spark to find us again."
Ashen glanced at the gauntlet.
"I didn't choose this," he muttered.
"No flame chooses the wind," the figure said. "But still, it must burn."
---
Ashen followed the figure deeper into the ruins.
They passed halls choked with vines and dust, stairways that led nowhere, and murals that told a story lost to the world. One showed a young warrior bearing the same gauntlet, standing before a mountain of corpses. Another showed that same warrior, crowned and burning, as cities crumbled behind him.
"What happened?" Ashen asked quietly.
"He was the first bearer of the Last Flame," the figure said. "The one who opened the path you now walk. He believed he could cleanse the world with fire."
Ashen's stomach twisted. "Did he succeed?"
The figure turned its masked face to him. "He burned the rot. But in time, he forgot what rot looked like. He began to see everything as fuel."
Ashen stopped walking.
"And that's what people are afraid I'll become, isn't it?" he said. "Another tyrant. Another walking inferno."
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it gestured toward a doorway, and Ashen stepped into a chamber unlike the others.
In the center floated a single flame.
No candle. No source.
Just a small, golden flame hovering in the air, encased in a sphere of silent heat.
The moment Ashen entered, the gauntlet on his arm surged with light, and the flame pulsed in response—as if it recognized him.
"This is the Heart of the Ember, the core of the Flameborn legacy," the figure said. "The last untouched essence of the fire that once fueled a generation of protectors… and destroyers."
Ashen stared into the flame, mesmerized.
It wasn't just fire.
It was memory. Emotion. Rage. Grief. Hope.
He stepped closer, drawn without understanding why.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Touch it," the figure said. "And see."
---
The moment his fingers brushed the flame, the world shattered.
Ashen's body froze in place, but his mind was flung into a storm of visions—blinding and overwhelming. He saw battles waged across blackened skies, towers falling, soldiers screaming. He saw the first bearer—the Flame King—standing with his hands raised, flame rolling off his body like waves from the sun.
He saw how it started.
A war of survival.
A plea to the gods for strength.
A gift accepted.
And a mind broken by the weight of power.
But then… Ashen saw something else.
A choice. A fork in the path.
The same path he now stood on.
---
When the visions ended, Ashen collapsed to his knees, panting, gasping for air. His eyes burned with tears that weren't from pain—but from understanding.
He felt it now. The danger. The temptation.
The line between protector and destroyer was razor-thin.
"You've seen it," the figure said, voice quieter now. "The truth."
Ashen rose slowly, his breathing steadying. The gauntlet on his arm felt warmer, heavier—but more his.
"I won't become him," he said firmly.
"Then remember this," the figure said, turning away. "Control doesn't mean suppression. Fire must burn. But it is you who decides what it burns for."
---
Ashen returned to Solmere at dawn, emerging through the hidden stairwell, exhausted and covered in ash.
Kael was waiting at the top, arms crossed.
"You went down there, didn't you?" he asked flatly.
Ashen nodded. "I had to."
Kael's expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed… softer. Just slightly.
"Good," he said. "Now you're ready for real training."
Ashen blinked. "That wasn't it?"
Kael smirked.
"Boy, that was just the introduction."