The doors of the Cindervault stood like the jaws of a dead god—massive, ancient, and scorched with runes too old to name. Their blackened metal shimmered with a pulsing red heat as if something within still breathed fire. Kael stood before them, Ashreaver across his back, the air around him tinged with embers.
The Oracle raised her staff and spoke to the gathered crowd. "Only one marked by fire and chosen by the ashes may enter. The Trial cannot be watched, cannot be aided. The Vault Flame judges alone."
Without waiting, Kael stepped forward.
The great doors split open with a groaning roar, revealing a staircase carved into obsidian descending into molten dark. The heat washed over him—thick, almost suffocating—but Kael didn't falter.
He descended alone.
Each step echoed with memories. Whispers of screams, the crackle of burning wood, the thunder of Sovereign blades clashing in ages past. The further he went, the more the flame seemed to know him—calling to his blood, hungry.
When he reached the chamber below, it greeted him.
A vast crucible.
The floor was a molten lake of fire. Suspended over it was a single obsidian platform, and upon it stood a figure—wreathed in flame, skin like glowing coal, eyes like smoking voids.
It was him.
Or rather… something shaped from him.
The Ember-Wrought.
A forged spirit, carved from Kael's memories, doubts, and wrath. It moved like him. It wielded a blackened version of Ashreaver. It smiled like a nightmare.
"You carry power that was never meant for you," the copy sneered. "You defy prophecy. That makes you dangerous."
Kael unsheathed Ashreaver, and the blade burst into crimson aura and black lightning.
"I've been dangerous for a long time."
They clashed.
Sparks exploded across the molten chamber as blade met blade. The Ember-Wrought fought with relentless fury—every strike mirroring Kael's techniques, every movement fueled by his darker instincts. The fight pushed Kael to his limits—forcing him to adapt, to evolve.
Each cut opened memory. Each blow revealed parts of himself he had buried.
Pain. Rage. Guilt. The night Rivenhart burned. The look in his sister's eyes. Kaelen's silent nod when he first handed him Ashreaver.
Kael snarled, aura blazing.
"You're not me. You're the part of me that stopped growing."
He stepped into the strike, slamming Ashreaver against the doppelganger's blade, breaking its guard.
Then came the name.
"Ashrend Fang — Sever!"
His sword howled with unleashed energy, cleaving straight through the Ember-Wrought's chest. The fiery doppelganger shattered into cinders, and Kael stood alone once more.
Silence.
Then the crucible chamber rumbled.
From the center rose a crystal shard, glowing deep red, pulsing with life. Kael stepped forward and touched it. Flame coursed through him—not burning, but binding.
His veins lit with gold and red. Symbols etched into his flesh for a heartbeat and vanished.
Above, the Oracle watched from a hidden scrying flame.
"He passed," she whispered. "And now… the Vault remembers him."