The Obscura facility had no clocks.
Time passed in fluorescent cycles and artificial sleep. Morning meant nothing underground. The only hint of change came in the sound—the rhythm of boots, hum of machines, and echoes of distant training modules behind reinforced doors.
Ikris stood shirtless in Chamber Delta, hooked up to half a dozen monitoring nodes. Electrodes lined his arms and spine, while two medics recorded heat displacement along his torso.
"Steady breath," one of them said. "We're calibrating flame latency to neural triggers."
"I'm breathing," Ikris muttered. "You're just scanning it wrong."
"Do not ignite yet."
Ikris closed his eyes, trying to keep the fire down. But it pulsed inside him anyway—rising like a wave beneath his skin. Not angry. Not out of control. Just… there.
Waiting.
The door opened with a hiss.
Lyssa stepped in, arms crossed, tablet in hand. She wore her field uniform today: tactical gray with small winged patterns stitched across her sleeves—the Aerin family crest.
"Still setting off the fire alarms just by thinking too hard?" she said.
Ikris opened one eye. "Did you come to flirt or supervise?"
"Neither. Halryn wants me to run you through a mirror test."
His brow furrowed. "What's a mirror test?"
She tapped a few icons. The lights dimmed. A circular disc rose from the floor in front of him—reflective black glass.
"Elemental feedback loop," she explained. "You focus your flame into the disc. It reflects it back as raw energy—no physical fuel, just elemental echo."
"That sounds stupidly dangerous."
"Welcome to Unit Obscura," she said.
The first time he pushed fire into the disc, it resisted. The flame crackled, sputtered. Then it whipped back toward him like a snake striking its own tail.
Ikris threw his hand up instinctively. The redirected fire struck his forearm—and vanished.
Not burned. Not absorbed. Redirected.
The energy had passed through him… and out the other side, flowing harmlessly into the wall.
Lyssa frowned.
"Again."
He lit the katana this time, channeling the flame along its edge like a living current. He slashed once through the air, then stabbed forward into the disc.
The reflection hit harder. This time it wasn't just heat—it was memory. A flash of something not his own. A boy in smoke. Screaming. A house fire?
He staggered back.
"What the hell was that?" he gasped.
Lyssa stared at the display screen, eyes narrowing.
"You saw something?"
"It wasn't me," he said. "It wasn't my memory."
She shut the console off immediately. "We're done for today."
"That's it? You're just walking out?"
"You weren't supposed to see anything," she said sharply. "The mirror isn't calibrated for that kind of resonance. It's never done that before."
Ikris clenched his fists. "You're hiding something."
"Everyone here is," she replied. "That's the point of this place."
Later, alone in the hallway, he found Sevik leaning against the doorframe to Ikris's quarters.
The ex-bodyguard looked unusually casual, dressed in sweats and a Unit-issued hoodie. He held out a thermos.
"Tea," Sevik said. "Non-explosive. Probably."
Ikris took it, unscrewed the cap, sniffed, then drank.
"You quit being my bodyguard," Ikris said. "So why are you still around?"
Sevik gave a half-smile. "I told your dad I resigned. Told you the same. But I never said I wasn't sticking close. I like having a pulse."
Ikris raised an eyebrow. "You're still on payroll?"
"Nah. I'm freelancing now. This time, as your actual friend."
Ikris looked at the thermos in his hands. "You think I need a friend?"
Sevik didn't answer. He just walked off whistling.
That night, Ikris dreamt of fire.
But not his own.
It wasn't a battle. Not destruction.
It was a room—small, wooden walls, bookshelves.
And a boy, maybe six or seven, crouched in the corner crying. He wasn't burning. But everything around him was.
The flame whispered. Not in words.
In feeling.
Pain. Terror. Loneliness.
And beneath it, something darker. A presence. A shape made of heat.
Watching.
Ikris jolted awake.
His palm was glowing red.
He rushed to the facility archives before dawn, still in sleep clothes, katana clanging against his leg. The AI assistant buzzed to life as he stepped inside.
"Search query?" it asked.
"Elemental mirror tests. Any recorded anomalies."
A pause. Then: "Access restricted. Authorization required: Level 5 Clearance."
"Override. Igan bloodline authorization: Ignis Hex."
Another pause.
"Override acknowledged. Accessing black vault logs…"
Files flooded the wall screens—dozens of failed mirror tests.
Most of them ended the same way: Subject destabilized. Flame echoed into uncontrolled feedback. Multiple deaths. Case sealed.
But one file stood out. Marked in red:
Subject 017-A – Codename: EmberseedAge: 7Location: Hidden Grove OrphanageResult: Spontaneous ignition, psychic echo through mirror. Subject unknown.Status: Case buried. Memory lock initiated. Witness clearance classified.
Ikris leaned closer. His heart pounded.
The date matched the dream.
He had never been to any orphanage.
Had he?
He touched the screen—and it locked.
"Reauthorization required."
He stepped back, breath fogging.
There was more.
Someone had erased his history. Or rewritten it.
As he turned to leave, he found Lyssa already standing in the doorway.
"How much did you see?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"You were never meant to access the vault," she continued.
Ikris drew the katana halfway from its sheath.
"Tell me the truth."
Lyssa didn't flinch. "I don't know the full truth. But I know the Emberseed case scared a lot of people. Your powers don't just burn things, Ikris. They remember them."
His mind reeled. "You mean I'm… reliving fire?"
"Not reliving," she said quietly. "Inheriting."
He turned away from her.
"I'm going to find out what they buried," he said. "And I don't care who burned it the first time."