The sun returned the next morning—but it brought no warmth.
Torian stirred beneath his cloak, cold despite the fire's pale glow. He sat up slowly, brushing ash
from his shoulders, and looked over at Skarn. The beast was curled nearby, breathing deep, golden
eyes half-lidded. The wound on his shoulder had already started to close—thick black scabs sealing
over torn flesh. He was healing, as he always did. But slower than usual.
And he was quieter.
Torian fed the fire and rose to his feet. His limbs ached, but not from the fight. From something
deeper. Weariness in his bones. In his thoughts.
He'd survived.
But something had shifted inside him.
The ember was still there. He could feel it—dormant, but awake. Like a coiled beast waiting for a
reason to speak again.
He didn't want to give it one.They left camp without a word. The forest around them was thin and crooked—black bark trees that
bent toward the east like they were all leaning away from something that had long since passed.
Birdsong returned in fragments. Once, they passed a stream and saw deer scatter into the brush.
But the peace never lasted.
By midday, they reached the edge of a cliffside and looked down.
A road lay below.
Wide. Smooth. Ancient.
It cut through the valley like a knife of stone, carved directly into the cliff face. Vines crawled across
its edges, but the path itself was intact—untouched by weather or time. Obsidian stones inlaid in the
road shimmered faintly beneath a thin layer of dust.
Torian frowned. "Someone built this to last."
Skarn snorted, eyes narrowed.
They descended carefully, following a trail of broken roots and loose rocks until their boots touched
the smooth stone of the road. The moment they did, the ember in Torian's chest stirred—not
urgently. Just a flicker. Like recognition.
He looked down.
Names were etched into the road.
Dozens of them. Hundreds.
Each one carved in a language he didn't know, but somehow understood. A feeling, not a
translation. The names meant nothing at first. Then he realized—some had been scorched out.
Others cracked. Others were untouched.
And one name stopped him cold.
He dropped to his knees.His fingers brushed the stone.
"Aric," he whispered.
His father's name.
Not burned. Not cracked.
Just there. Waiting.
He stared at it for a long time.
A rush of sensation washed over him. Not a memory, but a presence. His father's voice—distant,
quiet, like a whisper in the bones.
"We walk in fire, even when we feel nothing but cold."
Torian closed his eyes.
His father had walked this road.
Not recently. Not in his memory. But he had stood here. Perhaps before Torian was
even born.
"What were you?" he asked aloud.
Skarn sniffed the stone beside him, then looked to Torian and grunted softly.
Torian rose.
The road stretched in both directions—east into the valley, west into darkness.
But here, it split.
One path descended into a dense, misty ravine filled with ancient trees and tangled
roots.The other rose toward a broken spire on the far ridge—black against the darkening
clouds.
Torian waited.
The ember said nothing.
No pull. No voice. No whisper.
It was the first time it had left him without even a hint.
"Nothing?" he asked.
Still nothing.
He turned to Skarn.
"What do you think?"
Skarn looked both ways, then did something unusual.
He sat.
Waited.
Torian smiled faintly. "So it's my choice."
He looked at the spire again.
It reminded him of the City of Ash—broken, dead, scarred.
But not buried.
Still standing.
He took a breath.
"We go up."⸻
The climb was slow and brutal. The path narrowed as it twisted around jagged
outcroppings and steep ledges. Skarn's wings scraped the stone at times, but he
followed without complaint. Clouds rolled in above them, and the air thickened with
smoke—not from fire, but from something older that clung to the stones like dust.
As they rose, more names appeared.
Etched into pillars.
Carved into the mountainside.
Some were crossed out violently. Others bore strange markings beside them—sigils,
emblems, spirals.
The highest name was nearly erased.
Only the final rune remained.
Torian stopped and traced it.
It pulsed faintly under his fingers.
Not light.
Memory.
Flame-bearers had walked this path.
And not all of them had come back.
At the summit, the spire revealed itself.
It wasn't a tower anymore. Just a skeleton of stone wrapped in vines and wind. A
central pillar cracked down the middle, flanked by the shattered remnants of balconies
and statues. One statue still stood—headless, but proud. A spiral of fire etched acrossits chest.
Torian stepped inside.
The chamber was hollow. The walls bore scorch marks, and broken weapons littered
the floor—swords, staffs, halberds. All rusted, fused to the stone.
At the center was a basin.
Empty.
No water. No fire.
Just dust.
He walked to it and placed a hand on the edge.
The ember in his chest stirred, weakly.
Then stopped.
Skarn entered behind him, sniffed the air.
"What was this place?" Torian asked.
He looked up.
Above them, the ceiling had collapsed, revealing the sky.
Rain began to fall—slow, steady, soaking into ash and ruin.
Torian stepped into the center of the room and let it wash over him.
He felt clean, but not healed.
The names. The basin. The silence.
This place had been a testing ground.He understood it now.
The path wasn't just physical. It was a journey of memory. Of choices.
The ember would not speak until it was sure of him.
And it would not be sure until he decided who he was without it.
⸻
They camped that night beneath the ruined balcony, sheltered from the rain by cracked
pillars.
Torian built a small fire.
But when he reached out to touch it—just to warm his hand—it pulled away.
Literally.
The flames bent from his touch, shrinking.
He pulled his hand back.
"No?"
He tried again.
The flame dimmed.
It wasn't rejection.
It was retreat.
The ember inside him was waiting.
He curled beside Skarn and stared at the ceiling, where stars began to push through
cracks in the clouds."I'm not ready," he whispered.
The wind carried the words away.
But deep in his chest, the ember stirred.
Not in warning.
Not in anger.
Just once.
A slow, steady pulse.
Still listening.
Still watching.