The Shadow Rift did not wait for me to step inside—it swallowed us whole, like a maw that had been waiting all along. Crimson winds howled through fissures of molten stone, each gust tearing at my skin, branding it with heat not meant for flesh. The air itself carried whispers, voices slithering on tongues of fire, reciting verses I could barely understand.
"Sahl'ven arruqueth… dha'rein volath… rek'ash fiin drakhen…"
The words were not mine, yet they slid into my bones, urging me to answer. Damon tightened his grip on my wrist, his jaw locked as his eyes flickered against the flame-wracked abyss. Behind him, the Drakhen Conclave walked like shadows cut from burning glass, their scales catching the blood-red light, their eyes unreadable.
The Rift was alive.
Every heartbeat I took echoed against its walls as if the flame beneath the rock knew me, claimed me, had already decided my fate before I dared to. My chest burned. My blood sang. The Red Flame coiled inside me, rising like a serpent, daring me to set it free.
"The Rift knew me before I knew myself—it whispered that my blood was written in flame."
The ground trembled beneath us, the molten rivers cracking into shapes that resembled mouths. From them spilled more whispers, fevered and insistent, as if the Rift was chanting my name.
"Dahl'riah… ven'korr ish'arath… Dahl'riah… fal'shen drae…"
Sareth's voice cut through the firestorm, sharp and commanding, speaking in the forbidden tongue of the Drakhen oath:
"Veyr'tholn drakhen, saal'nir yorrath, kah'nir vosh."
("By flame unbroken, by shadow entwined, the trial begins.")
The Conclave joined him, their voices layering in guttural harmony, shaking the very walls of the Rift. Damon's hand never left me, but he looked at me differently now—like he knew the Rift wanted me more than I wanted it. Like he was afraid he might lose me to the fire before he could pull me back.
The Red Flame pulsed harder, and when I breathed, sparks spilled from my lips.
The Rift's whisper became a scream.
"Ignareth… shael'nor… kraeth al'drakhen!"
("Burn… surrender… become the dragon!")
I felt it then—the choice was no longer mine alone. Either I would master the fire… or it would master me.
---
The descent ended at a cavernous hollow of stone and smoke, its heart pulsing with a volcanic altar shaped by claw and fire. The Drakhen Conclave encircled it like sentinels, their scales shimmering in hues of ember and obsidian. This was the Ember Crucible—where heirs were judged, not by blood, but by whether flame would gnaw or kneel.
The Bloodhound, his voice iron ground against stone, motioned Dahlia forward. "You must breathe the flame into your marrow… or it will hollow you. There is no middle path."
Lucian stood tense at the ring's edge, eyes glowing like forged steel, every muscle ready to break her free should she falter. Mira's lips moved in prayer, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. Jareth clenched his axe with such force it groaned. The twins, Marlow and Veyra, whispered to one another, their fear barely veiled beneath bravado. The Ironsworn, grim and resolute, lined the shadows, their oaths unspoken but heavy.
And Sareth, ever the bone-seer, crooked his head at Dahlia. His teeth gleamed like shards as he rasped, "The fire remembers your first breath. Do not lie to it, girl. Let it taste your marrow."
I stepped forward—my knees hitting the blackened stone. Heat coiled in waves, like serpents tightening around my chest. The Crucible's flames rose in anticipation, hungry.
The Conclave began to drum their claws against the cavern floor. The sound became thunder, reverberating through my bones. A wordless pressure gathered at my lips, and I gave myself over, whispering the ancient call I had never been taught yet somehow knew.
"Sahr'ven drakhaal, ethrun vel'mar, brenn ossai…"
(Blood of flame, bind my soul, burn without consuming…)
The words slid from my throat like molten glass. The Crucible answered. Scarlet fire burst upward, engulfing me in a pillar of heat that clawed at my skin, seeped into my veins, and set every nerve alight.
Lucian shouted my name—but the flames devoured his voice. Mira fell to her knees, clutching at her chest as if the fire had reached her too. The twins clasped hands, white-knuckled, whispering fractured prayers. Even Jareth stumbled back as the wave of heat rolled outward.
Sareth only grinned, his sockets bright with eerie reflection. "It judges her marrow. If she resists, she dies. If she yields, she burns forever."
The Red Flame coiled around my heart, testing, tempting, tearing. Every breath was a war—between surrender and survival.
And in the hollow of my mind, I heard the Crucible whisper in that same flame-tongue, its words echoing like an oath branded into my blood:
"Vel'thran ossai, veyr'dan kallos… drakhaal essai."
(Burn, vessel of fire, rise as one with the blood of flame…)
I gasped—and the trial began in full.
---
The flame inside me had just begun to anchor, threading fire into marrow, when the air broke with a hiss that was not wind. Shadows unstitched themselves from the stone spires above the Crucible—cloaked figures, their skin crawling with black fire. The Hollow Order.
They descended in silence until the first whisper split the air, a poison thread against my invocation.
"Xyrr'athuun vol kriis, ember fall, cinder drown…"
Their words struck like knives, unraveling the fire within me, making the flame stagger, reel, turn inward as if it wanted to consume my bones. My breath caught, and the Crucible floor cracked under my knees.
Lucian was first to meet them, his blade flaring with molten steel as he shouted an oath that burned the air. Jareth's howl followed, wolf and man braided together, driving two assassins back with claw and steel. Mira danced like a shadow herself, twin daggers catching stray tongues of fire before they touched me.
The twins, Marlow and Veyra, flanked the Crucible's edge, their chants twining:
"Venrath ossir, twin flame bind, suul'kai thren'daar…"
The echo of their bond hardened the perimeter, but even their fire was bent and twisted by the Order's counter-incantations.
From the back, Sareth's hollow voice cut through, bone staff rising:
"Drav'khaal en suun, marrow shield, ash deny the hollow…"
His chant steadied me a moment, forcing my flame to hold. Yet the assassins pressed harder, their black fire writhed like serpents. One came close enough for me to smell the ash of a thousand graves. Its hand reached for my chest, black talons groping for the ember inside me.
The Bloodhound snarled—no words, only fury—but I knew this trial was mine to endure. If I let my flame break, it would not just kill me—it would consume everyone around me.
I tried to recall the invocation, the rhythm of it, my lips stumbling through fire-cracked breath.
"Sahr'ven drakhaal… ethrun vel'mar… brenn ossai—"
But the words slipped, corrupted by the Order's chant. My fire raged wild, spilling outward in broken bursts—half shield, half storm. One assassin ignited, screaming as its black cloak burned to white cinder. Another twisted the eruption, turning it toward Lucian.
The Crucible became chaos—flame and shadow colliding, bone chants and hollow whispers scraping against each other in a war of tongues.
And I—heart split between destruction and control—felt the red flame roar inside me, demanding choice.
---
The chamber shook with the clash of steel and shadowed fire, every strike echoing like a drumbeat against my chest. Damon's body remained between me and the Hollow assassins, his blade whirling crimson arcs through their black flame, but I could see the blood slicking his side. His breaths came ragged, yet his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Claim it or it will claim you.
The words burned into me, heavier than the heat licking at my skin. I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, and the Bloodhound's rasp from that night in the ash field stirred in my memory—its jaws at my throat, its lesson carved into bone.
No hesitation. No mercy. Only flame.
I dropped to one knee, raising both palms into the inferno spilling wild and untamed from the broken circle. The Red Flame writhed, half feral, half divine, straining to devour me whole. My tongue moved before my mind could stop it, tasting of copper and ash as I called the Second Invocation:
"Veyr'thaal oss-drenn, cindra veyrak, vahl drakhen morr…"
(Ash to crown, flame to spirit, dragon-blood awaken…)
The words cracked the air like chains breaking. The fire convulsed, recoiling, then snapped forward in a tidal surge that obeyed—not fully, not gently, but enough.
The nearest Hollow assassins screamed, their cloaks of black fire unraveling as the Red Flame wrapped them in living embers. They chanted in fury, their voices a serpent's hiss:
"Xyrr'athuun vol kriis, ember fall, cinder drown…"
The counterspell tried to choke my flame, but instead it only fed it, as if my blood had already claimed a deeper right. I felt it then—the dragon's pulse in the marrow of my bones, the crown of ash pressing unseen against my skull.
Damon staggered but did not fall, his shadow cast long in the glow of the flame I wielded. He turned his face toward me, blood streaking his jaw, and whispered—hoarse, urgent— "Don't stop, Dahlia. Take it all."
The Red Flame roared at my command, burning in my hands, scalding my veins, yet not consuming me. For the first time, I wasn't its prey. I was its vessel.
And with a cry torn from somewhere between terror and triumph, I unleashed it, incinerating a wave of Hollow warriors in a single exhale of scarlet fire.
---
The air cracked, as though a thousand bones snapped at once, and the Hollow Order raised their hands in unison. Their voices slithered into the trial chamber like poisoned smoke, weaving through the Red Flame that bent at my command.
"Mar'kor veyrathuun, drann ossai, fall flame, fall child…"
Their chant was oil on water, darkness seeping into the fissures of my control. The Red Flame sputtered, roared, then twisted against me, its coils tightening like a serpent ready to strike. I felt it turning inward, clawing at my ribs, licking my heart.
Flashes burned across my vision—me, standing over Damon's broken body, his flesh seared black beneath my fire. The Conclave screaming as I consumed them whole, their faces melting in the storm I had become. My own skin splitting, light pouring through the cracks, until I was no longer Dahlia but a living inferno, an unending blaze that devoured friend and foe alike.
I staggered, the chamber blurring. My arms shook, the Red Flame whipping out of my grip. Damon shouted something, but the sound warped into ash-laden echoes. I couldn't breathe. The Hollow Order's chant swelled louder, each word burrowing into my marrow:
"Mar'kor veyrathuun, drann ossai, fall flame, fall child…"
I thought I was lost—until the Bloodhound's growl thundered through my skull. It wasn't just sound, it was command, primal and binding.
Do not resist—shape it.
The beast's words vibrated against my bones, pulling me back from the edge. I clenched my fists, dragging in air thick as tar, and forced the fire to pause at the brink of consuming me. My body trembled, my mouth opened, and for a heartbeat I almost spoke the Hollow tongue back at them—until I realized the choice was mine.
Not surrender. Not destruction. But shape.
And the Red Flame shivered, waiting.
---
The fire stopped clawing at me when I stopped fighting it. The agony was still there—raw, splitting, endless—but I let it pour through instead of against me. For a heartbeat I felt weightless, suspended between life and ash, when the world cracked open.
Beneath my skin, beneath the stone, beneath even the marrow of the earth—I saw it. Veins of Flame. Rivers of red fire threading through the world, through the trees above, the roots, the stars, the sky, through Damon's chest, through the very blood in Sareth's cursed veins. And now, through mine.
My lips moved without permission, the words ancient, molten, alive.
"Rha'sor velu'nai, threnn ossar, ekthir rann—
bindu'n veyra, sol'nath druun—
red flame, bow to me, I am your marrow."
The fire lanced into my veins like rivers breaking a dam. I didn't burn—I crowned. Flames arched behind me, folding into wings of incandescent fire. Their edges dripped molten feathers, and every beat was thunder.
The Hollow Order screamed as one, their counter-ritual stuttering.
"Veyrathuun ossai! Ossai var drann! Devour her! Devour!"
But the fire did not devour me—it bent. The Red Flame coiled at my feet, snarling, tamed, bound to my pulse. Every breath I took was smoke and storm.
The Bloodhound's voice tore through the madness, guttural and approving.
—Yes. Shape it. Let it crown you.
I raised my burning hands, and the stone of the chamber wept red light. Their chants faltered as they beheld me—not a vessel breaking, but a sovereign rising.
And for the first time, the Hollow Order knew fear.
---
The Conclave fell to their knees as one. Cloaks of ash and charred veils hit the ground, voices trembling as they gave me a title I had not yet claimed. "Eldura Venarion, Red Daughter reborn," they whispered like moths circling flame. Their reverence pressed heavy against my chest, but the fire within me did not waver—it flared, hungry, listening.
Sareth's eyes blazed crimson. He pressed his palm against the smoldering stones and hissed a forbidden call:
"Velthuran ekthari, veyrathuun nareth, shara-keth ondrial."
(The fire breaks, the chains unbind, shadows kneel to blood.)
The Hollow Order shrieked in fury, their formation collapsing, their chants unraveling. One tried to conjure a banishment, clawing the air with bleeding hands:
"Orh'shal ven'dir, falnathru essar, bend her flame to ash!"
(Extinguish the vessel, bind the flame, return her to dust!)
But the Red Flame coiled around my body like a living serpent and hissed in defiance. Their curse withered before it reached me.
I lifted my hands without thought, and words not my own poured from my tongue, molten and inexorable:
"Kelthra anvor, essai draveth, morru sath'rael."
(Crown of fire, wings of judgment, rise in my blood.)
The Veins of Flame surged through me, spilling into the air, forming a crown of burning wings above my head. The Hollow Order wailed as if the sight alone scalded them.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the Rift itself convulsed, torn open wider than before. From its depths came a roar that rattled marrow, a quake that broke the Conclave's chants in half. Shadows ignited, and a figure of colossal fire began to climb through—a hulking beast of smoldering bone and living cinders.
Its eyes burned with abyssal hatred. Its steps cracked the blackened stones of the Hall.
The Hollow Order prostrated themselves, screaming in one voice:
"Veyrathuun ven'gol! Arkh'thor belmara! Nareth shor-vel thundra!"
(Herald of the First Flame! Devour the flesh of the false daughter! Burn her world to ruin!)
I felt the air split, the heat doubling, the Rift screaming like a wound in the sky. Every instinct in me shouted to run, yet the fire in my veins answered differently—it tightened its grip, daring me to stand.
The Rift thundered as the Hollow Behemoth rose—Veyrathuun had sent his first true herald to burn me from the world.
---