The next morning, the estate was buzzing. Not from drills or chants, but from tension — like a wire pulled too tight.
The armory fire had ignited more than just kindling. Rumors flew like ash in the wind. The guards were furious. The clan elders demanded an inquest. No culprit had been found.
Velan kept his head down. He scrubbed the floors outside the northern gate like every other servant boy, dirty water pooling beneath his fingers.
But he could feel it.
Something beneath his skin still pulsed. Faint. Waiting.
And worse — someone was watching him.
He looked up.
On the balcony above the main training yard stood Thiruvadi, his golden armor glinting beneath the morning sun. He wasn't alone. Next to him stood a woman in deep crimson robes — Kayalvizhi, his elder cousin. Her eyes were sharper than her tongue, which was saying something.
"That's the one," she said, nodding toward Velan. "He smells wrong."
Velan ducked his head again, pretending not to hear.
He had smelled worse than sweat or rice for years. But wrong? That was new.
Kayalvizhi descended the steps like a hawk about to strike. Her robe trailed behind her like flame.
Velan didn't move.
"You," she said flatly, her voice cold and heavy like the edge of a sword. "Stand."
He did. Slowly.
Kayalvizhi stepped close enough for him to see the thin scar that cut from her temple to her jaw — a memory from battle, not ceremony.
"I've heard of you," she said, circling him once. "The boy who doesn't scream. The one who eats ash and survives."
Velan didn't reply. Words were traps in this estate. Even truth could be twisted into a blade.
She tilted her head. "Why were you near the old relic hall?"
Velan's fingers twitched. So they did know.
"I was cleaning," he lied.
Her stare pierced him. "There hasn't been a cleaning order there in seven years."
"I was hungry."
It wasn't an excuse. It was just what he was. A hungry shadow no one noticed—until now.
Kayalvizhi didn't speak for a moment. Then she did something unexpected.
She smiled.
But it wasn't kindness. It was the smile of a hunter who had just caught a glimpse of something rare.
"Come with me," she ordered. "The elders wish to speak."
---
⚔️ The Inner Courtyard of Flames
Velan stood at the edge of the courtyard, eyes wide.
This was the heart of the clan — forbidden to servants, and even some lowborn warriors. Great red banners hung from pillars etched with fire sigils. Braziers burned with blue flame, fueled by spiritual ore.
And in the center stood the elders.
Three of them. Hooded. Wrinkled. Eyes like knives dulled by time but not by weakness.
"Step forward," one said. "Speak your name."
Velan hesitated. "Velan. Born of… no house."
The elder grunted.
Another raised his hand. "A relic awakened yesterday. Anaiyaal's Blood Altar."
Gasps from the crowd of warriors gathered along the courtyard edge.
"Only one with blood resonance could've triggered that altar."
Kayalvizhi stepped in. "He was there. I traced the energy to his bones."
One of the elders turned his face toward Velan, gaze unreadable. "How do you plead?"
Velan clenched his fists.
This was it. His death sentence. A servant had entered a sacred place. Touched a blood relic. Awakened something not meant for his caste.
But he didn't feel afraid.
He felt… ready.
"I don't plead," Velan said, voice steady. "I answered. The relic called. I obeyed."
The third elder stirred for the first time.
"Do you claim it, child? Do you claim the shadow within?"
Silence.
Velan looked past them, past the banners, past the training grounds—into the horizon.
"Yes," he whispered. "If it burns, I will carry it."
---
A long silence.
Then — laughter.
Kayalvizhi didn't laugh. She just watched. Intently.
The elders conferred in murmurs. Then one stepped forward.
"You will be tested," he declared. "In three days, during the clan's monthly Flame Trial. If you survive, you may live."
"And if not?" Velan asked.
The elder smiled thinly. "Then the flames will cleanse the shame of your blood."
---
As Velan turned to leave, the mark at his collarbone pulsed again — a quiet rhythm like a war drum, slow and steady.
And from somewhere deep inside, Anaiyaal's voice whispered once more:
> "Three days, flame-born. That is when your shadow begins to rise."
---
End of Chapter 3