The fire flickered low, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the shelter Arlen had built the night before. Ember sat beside it, knees drawn to her chest, watching the flames with a quiet intensity. The weight of what she had seen—what she had felt—still clung to her like a second skin.
Across the fire, Arlen stirred. He had dozed off briefly after tending to Ember's wounded ankle, but even in sleep, there was a restlessness to him—shoulders tense, brows furrowed, as if the war inside him refused to rest.
"I'm not broken," Ember said suddenly, her voice low and hushed.
Arlen opened his eyes slowly, blinking into the half-light. "I never said you were."
"But you think I am." She turned her gaze to him now. "That thing… that vision back there. You think it means I'm cursed. Like the others did."
He sat up, brushing a hand through his hair. "No. Not cursed. Just… different."
She laughed—dry and bitter. "Different is just another way of saying 'dangerous.' Or 'unwanted.'"
There was a long silence between them. Outside, the wind howled softly through the rocks, the voice of the mountains whispering their secrets.
Arlen leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "When I was six, a boy in my village saw me heal a rabbit. His father beat me bloody that night and said I was touched by shadows. My mother begged them not to cast me out."
Ember's eyes widened slightly. "What happened?"
"They made her choose. Me, or them." He looked into the fire. "She chose me. We left everything behind. I haven't seen that village in fifteen years."
A slow breath escaped Ember's lips. "You… understand."
"I do." He met her gaze. "And I know power like yours doesn't just appear. It chooses people. Sometimes for reasons that don't make sense at first."
She looked away. "It didn't feel like power. It felt like… like the world was unraveling inside my chest."
He nodded. "Maybe that's what power feels like at first."
The silence that followed was different—softer, less strained. There was a sense of unspoken understanding between them now, like the stones had shifted ever so slightly beneath their feet.
Then the ground actually shook.
It was subtle at first. A tremor, like a distant thunder. But then it grew stronger. The fire wavered, pebbles danced across the floor, and a deep crack echoed from somewhere below.
Arlen leapt to his feet, hand already on his dagger. "Get behind me!"
Ember scrambled up, heart pounding. "What is it?!"
A moment later, the ground split open—just a hairline fracture, but enough to reveal a sickly red glow from beneath the stone. Heat pulsed upward, followed by a strange, rhythmic hum, like a heartbeat made of fire.
"No," Arlen muttered. "It can't be… not this far north."
"What is it?!"
"Volcanic magic," he said, eyes scanning the walls. "We need to leave. Now."
Ember didn't ask questions. She grabbed her pack and followed him as he darted out into the night, boots skidding over loose gravel and half-frozen mud.
The sky above was a wash of deep navy and stars, but the horizon to the south was tinged with a faint, unnatural crimson.
"Where are we going?" Ember shouted over the wind.
"There's a ridge about half a mile from here. We can get higher ground and see where the breach is!"
They ran—Ember's ankle still weak, but adrenaline pushed her forward. Behind them, the mountain groaned again. A deep, echoing sound like a dragon waking from slumber.
By the time they reached the ridge, the source of the glow was clear: a fissure nearly thirty feet wide had opened across the valley, oozing molten light. Not lava, not fire—but something else entirely. Magic, raw and unbound, leaking from the earth like blood from a wound.
And in the center of it, hovering just inches above the glowing rift, was a figure.
A woman.
Tall, clad in robes that shimmered like burning embers. Her hair was a mass of flickering fire, and her eyes glowed gold. She turned her head, and even from the ridge, Ember felt those eyes see her.
Arlen cursed. "The Flamekeeper."
"The what?"
"She guards the ancient forges—the ones buried beneath this continent since the Age of Blades. They're supposed to be sealed. She's supposed to be sealed."
"Why is she here now?"
"I don't know," Arlen whispered. "But if she's waking… it means someone's trying to unleash the forges again."
Below them, the Flamekeeper raised her hands—and the air ignited.
Fire didn't just erupt—it sang, twisting into spirals, forming glyphs, runes, entire sentences of flame suspended in the night. It was beautiful and terrifying, a language lost to time, now spoken once more.
Arlen's voice was tight. "She's not attacking. She's… summoning."
The glyphs spun faster, the symbols burning brighter, until they coalesced into a single, massive sigil. Then, without warning, it exploded upward—straight toward the sky—and vanished.
A moment later, the fire dimmed. The Flamekeeper looked up at them again, her gaze lingering on Ember. And then she smiled.
Not kindly.
"Run," Arlen whispered.
They turned and fled, sprinting back down the ridge. Behind them, the rift began to seal, the ground knitting itself shut—but the heat remained, the magic still crackling in the air like static.
By the time they returned to the shelter, the fire had died, and the earth was still.
But something had changed.
Ember felt it in her bones. A humming, a resonance beneath her skin.
"She saw me," Ember said softly. "She knew I was there."
Arlen didn't answer immediately. He was busy examining the stone wall near the fire pit—where a new mark had appeared.
A sigil.
Not drawn by hand. Burned into the rock.
"What does it mean?" Ember asked, stepping closer.
Arlen didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was grim.
"It means you're not just being hunted, Ember."
She looked up at him. "Then what?"
"You've been chosen."