A YEAR AGO LAST VOW FIRE TRAIL:Teren Vale already failed once. Marked, scarred, and shamed, he walks back into the Hall certain he will be broken again. Instead, the fire brands him with something worse:
The Hall of Candles was more than a chamber it was a trial. Every noble heir came here once in their life to face the vowfire. One candle per candidate, one vow spoken aloud. The flame judged without mercy: truth fed the light, but lies scorched the flesh and marked the soul forever. Pass, and you stepped into the ranks of power. Fail, and the burn followed you for life.
The Hall of Candles breathed like a beast.
Wax dripped in thick rivers down a thousand stalks, pooling on the floor and hardening into pale ridges that looked like bones. The light shivered against the stone, jittery and nervous, as if even flame feared what waited. Smoke pressed into the rafters until it thickened into a gray ceiling you could taste on your tongue. Warm tallow. Sour incense. A faint sting, like burnt hair.
Heat sat heavy on the hall, weighty and deliberate, forcing every chest to rise slower. It wasn't just a room. It was a trial made stone.
Benches lined the walls, packed with nobles and their hangers-on. Every cough, every nervous whisper echoed too loudly, bouncing back with interest. The Hall felt alive, holding one long, patient breath.
Teren Vale stepped into his circle and forced his eyes down. Palms flat on thighs. The scar at his throat itched like it remembered closing.
"Name," the proctor said. His staff slammed once against the floor, sharp and final. The crack rolled across the chamber like thunder boxed in stone.
"Teren Vale."
The name carried. Quills hissed on the balcony above where slate-coated Archivists hunched over ledgers. A cough cut the silence. A quick laugh followed, too sharp to be friendly. Vale always came back slower than it left, like mud stuck to a boot.the vale name was tarnished
"Candidate," the proctor said. "Light the wick. Speak your vow. The flame decides."
One Archivist leaned into the light, voice dry. "Ink confirms what fire denies." His quill didn't pause.
Teren stared at the candle in front of him. White wax. Short wick. A puddle already cooling at the base. In any other room it would be harmless. Here, plain things turned deadly. Last year he had lit one too. Last year the flame had risen like a noose. He still woke choking in the dark, clawing at the scar the fire had branded into him.
He clenched his jaw. Not again.
"Try not to choke this time," Serin Haldrin said from the next ring over. The words floated, smooth as silver, meant to carry.
Serin's candle already burned steady gold, a perfect coin lifted to the sun. His uniform was pressed, posture flawless, face carved for temples and coins. People like him didn't need crowns. The world bent first.
Teren struck flint. Sparks spat. The wick caught and breathed in, a small animal sniffing for blood.
Brann Sedge shifted in his circle down the line. Big frame. Steady eyes. The kind of boy who looked slow until he moved. He had been watching Teren since the morning, wordless and heavy as stone.
"Not a word, Sedge," the proctor warned.
Brann mumbled, "Wasn't saying one."
A few chuckles rolled through the benches. They died fast.
Heat licked up from the wick. The carved letters above the doors seemed to tremble in smoke.
CROWNS DON'T SIT.
A skinny boy three rings down cried out. Hot wax spat over his wrist, blistering skin in an instant. His flame bent lower, hungry.
"Vowburn," someone whispered.
Neris Alon moved before the proctor did. Her healer's kit slapped against her hip as she crossed. She pressed her palm to the boy's wrist, sharp eyes locked on him. His cry cut off like a rope snapped. The blister cooled under her hand, leaving red flesh sealed tight.
"You'll keep your grip," she said evenly. "Don't lie to the flame again." She added
The benches stirred. Painweavers unsettled people. Neris was a unique painweaver.
"Stagecraft," Serin scoffed "you cheater" he roared
Teren finally looked at him. "Do mirrors award points for staring at themselves?" He said with irritation in his bones.
A thin spread of laughter. Serin's smile sharpened. His golden flame didn't waver.
"Focus," Brann muttered.
"I am," Teren said, though his tongue felt coated in ash.
The hall pressed on. Flint struck. Wicks caught. Young nobles and ladies stepped forward, some trembling and some arrogant. Vows spilled like dice: oaths of glory, vengeance, loyalty, power. Some flames flared high. Others spat black smoke. One girl swore to become her house's blade; her candle guttered sideways. The proctor slammed his staff and waved her on, face unreadable as she bit her lip against tears.
A soldier with scarred knuckles vowed to bring his men home. His flame snapped up strong and clean. The benches thudded fists in respect, a wordless chorus of approval.
The Archivists wrote it all down. Successes. Failures. Ash. Light.
Teren's own wick leaned closer, knowing. His scar pulsed, phantom hands clawing again. Last year's memory rose jagged: the heat closing on his throat, his breath strangled, nails tearing skin as he collapsed. He had looked up through tears and seen faces smiling at his fall.
Not this time.
He set his palms close to the wax. Heat pressed against him, testing.
"I vow,to stand where I didn't."
he said, low but clear
The flame shifted. Not bigger. Closer. Listening.
"I vow," he forced out, "to be more than the worst thing I've done."
The wick snapped. The flame split pale at the edges, a dark thread running through like a crack in glass.
On the balcony, quills scratched faster. One Archivist pointed. Another nodded as if this was exactly the anomaly they had come for.
Pressure gathered at Teren's scar. A thumb pressed to a bruise. A word hummed in his bones.
Vessel.
His breath hitched. He coughed, forcing it down.
Serin cocked his head. "Hear something, Vale?"
"Wind," Teren vale said.
"In a sealed hall?" Serin Questioned with concern
"It finds cracks." Teren replied
The proctor slammed his staff again. "Close your vow." He instructed
"So sworn," Teren said.
"Louder." Proctor grumbled
"So sworn."Teren said with more force
"And—" the proctor said with a grin on his face
"So witnessed." Teren finished
The flame steadied like a heartbeat. The dark thread did not fade.
"Mark discoloration," an Archivist called.
Neris's eyes flicked to his throat. He dropped his gaze.
"Next," the proctor ordered.
Serin rose like a king to his stage. "Serin Haldrin. I vow to be what blood refuses me."
His flame stretched upward, a golden column clawing at the ceiling. Heat rolled across the chamber. Even the Archivists paused their pens.
"Crownmirror," someone breathed.
Serin lifted his hand. The column bent with it, obedient. He twisted his wrist and the light followed. Half the hall leaned without meaning to.
"Show-off," Brann muttered.
"Efficient," Teren said, teeth tight.
"Close your vow, Haldrin," the proctor snapped.
"So sworn. So witnessed." Serin bowed just enough to pass for courtesy.with out making it seem like any one could make him bow
He looked straight past Teren. "Try to keep up." As he walk right past him
Teren's flame trembled. The scar at his throat made a sudden move as if it was alive.The blood from his neck moved from the scar
His blood shimmered gray, gleaming like melted iron around his skin the blood has flowed and wrapped around his neck, turning into a iron cold rigid collar. His fingers made Way up to his neck, feeling the cold iron collar, he shook with fear his neck that was once warm it was now cold
"Murmurs swelled. 'A torc. Like in the old stories.'"
The sound rolled through the benches like a wave hitting stone.
Some nobles leaned in, hungry. Others pulled back like the collar might jump throats. Slate coats on the balcony bent over their ledgers. Quills scratched faster.
Teren kept his chin level. The new collar was cold and heavy, like wet iron left in snow. It hummed in a short, steady rhythm that didn't match his heart. Each pulse made the old scar flare like a brand waking up.
He fought the twitch in his hands.
Neris Alon moved first. She had a black braid and quick hands, pale green eyes cutting through smoke. Her healer's satchel bumped her hip as she stepped into his ring.
"Don't touch it," she said, calm and close. "Tell me if you can breathe."
"I can," Teren said. It was true, but the air felt thin.
Serin Haldrin stood a ring away. Golden hair cut short, not a strand out of place. His uniform looked new, stiff like it had never seen a fight. The gold of his candle painted his face like a temple statue.
He smiled. "Unstable iron. Fitting."
Brann Sedge shifted in his circle. Wide shoulders. Big hands. Calm brown eyes. Farm-strong. "If it's heavy," he said, "it's worth carrying."
"Candidate!" the proctor snapped. He smacked his staff on the floor. The crack ran around the chamber and came back. "Close the rite."
Teren didn't look away from the flame. "So sworn," he said, clear. The collar tightened once, as if testing him. "So witnessed."
The proctor hesitated. He never hesitated.
On the balcony, an Archivist spoke without looking up. "Record: torc manifestation. Mark: dissonant thread in flame. Note: iron coagulate from blood."
Another answered, dry and certain. "Filed."
The hall breathed in.
Wax popped. Heat leaned.
Teren felt the collar listen.
From nowhere and everywhere a word slid under his skin and settled against the scar.
Vessel.
He kept his face still. Only his fingers curled.
Serin tilted his head. "Hear it again?"
"Just you," Teren said.
A thin laugh moved through the benches. It died fast when the proctor lifted his hand.
"Candidate Vale," the proctor said, voice steady again. "By flame and witness, you have… passed." The pause sat between the words like a stone. "Marked, but passed. You will report to Office custody for observation."
The benches stirred at that. Office meant rules. Lock rooms. Papers.
Brann's mouth went tight. Neris's eyes flicked to Teren's throat and back to the proctor.
Serin bowed the smallest bow a person could make and still call it polite. "Of course the Office will watch him. The city likes its fires in lamps."
The proctor ignored him. He pointed to the floor with the end of his staff. "Extinguish and clear the ring."
Teren reached toward his candle and stopped. The flame bent toward his fingers like a dog that might bite. He blew once. The light fought him, then went out with a small spin of smoke.
He stepped back from the circle.
The collar pulsed again. Cold flowed down into his chest and came back as a tight ache behind the breastbone. It wasn't pain exactly. It was pressure. Like the space under a storm before the first drop hits.
As he left the ring, whispers tracked him.
"Is that safe?"
"Old blood tricks."
"Crown-bait."
"Vessel," someone said softly, like they didn't mean to say it out loud.
Teren kept walking. He didn't speed up and he didn't slow down.
He passed Serin.
"Try not to trip over your own legend," Serin said, voice light.
"Try not to drown in yours," Teren said, voice flat.
Serin's smile sharpened. His golden flame didn't flicker.
Neris fell into step on Teren's right. "How cold?" she asked.
"Bone deep," he said.
"Any squeeze? Like a hand?"
"Not yet." He swallowed. The metal tasted like blood and a penny. "Feels like it's counting."
"Counting what?"
"No idea," he said.
Brann joined on Teren's left, keeping pace without crowding. "You want a cloak over it? People are staring."
Teren considered. The collar was a fact now. Hiding it wouldn't make it quiet. Still—eyes burned, and not just from smoke. "Yeah," he said.
Brann shrugged off his old gray cloak and swung it around Teren's shoulders in one neat move. The fabric smelled like rain and hay. The cold stayed, but the look from the benches softened. Some lost interest. Others didn't.
The proctor lifted his staff again. "Proceed," he called. "Next candidate."
The hall shifted back to the machine it was. Sparks. Vows. Flame judging. The sound of quills above.
But the air had changed. Every new oath took shape around the iron on Teren's neck, as if the collar had become an extra witness no one had invited.
Neris touched Teren's sleeve. "We're done here," she said. "Office will want you in the Quiet Room before anyone decides you're a parade."
Serin heard "Quiet Room" and the corner of his mouth tilted. "Good," he said. "Silence might teach him manners."
"Silence might teach you humility," Neris said without looking at him.
Serin's smile didn't move. "I'm unteachable."
"Tragic," Brann said.
They reached the doors. The words carved above them seemed to hum with heat and ash.
CROWNS DON'T SIT.
"Murmurs swelled. 'A torc. Like in the old stories.'"
The sound rolled through the benches like a wave hitting stone.
Some nobles leaned in, hungry. Others pulled back like the collar might jump throats. Slate coats on the balcony bent over their ledgers. Quills scratched faster.
Teren kept his chin level. The new collar was cold and heavy, like wet iron left in snow. It hummed in a short, steady rhythm that didn't match his heart. Each pulse made the old scar flare like a brand waking up.
He fought the twitch in his hands.
Neris Alon moved first. She had a black braid and quick hands, pale green eyes cutting through smoke. Her healer's satchel bumped her hip as she stepped into his ring.
"Don't touch it," she said, calm and close. "Tell me if you can breathe."
"I can," Teren said. It was true, but the air felt thin.
Serin Haldrin stood a ring away. Golden hair cut short, not a strand out of place. His uniform looked new, stiff like it had never seen a fight. The gold of his candle painted his face like a temple statue.
He smiled. "Unstable iron. Fitting."
Brann Sedge shifted in his circle. Wide shoulders. Big hands. Calm brown eyes. Farm-strong. "If it's heavy," he said, "it's worth carrying."
"Candidate!" the proctor snapped. He smacked his staff on the floor. The crack ran around the chamber and came back. "Close the rite."
Teren didn't look away from the flame. "So sworn," he said, clear. The collar tightened once, as if testing him. "So witnessed."
The proctor hesitated. He never hesitated.
On the balcony, an Archivist spoke without looking up. "Record: torc manifestation. Mark: dissonant thread in flame. Note: iron coagulate from blood."
Another answered, dry and certain. "Filed."
The hall breathed in.
Wax popped. Heat leaned.
Teren felt the collar listen.
From nowhere and everywhere a word slid under his skin and settled against the scar.
Vessel.
He kept his face still. Only his fingers curled.
Serin tilted his head. "Hear it again?"
"Just you," Teren said.
A thin laugh moved through the benches. It died fast when the proctor lifted his hand.
"Candidate Vale," the proctor said, voice steady again. "By flame and witness, you have… passed." The pause sat between the words like a stone. "Marked, but passed. You will report to Office custody for observation."
The benches stirred at that. Office meant rules. Lock rooms. Papers.
Brann's mouth went tight. Neris's eyes flicked to Teren's throat and back to the proctor.
Serin bowed the smallest bow a person could make and still call it polite. "Of course the Office will watch him. The city likes its fires in lamps."
The proctor ignored him. He pointed to the floor with the end of his staff. "Extinguish and clear the ring."
Teren reached toward his candle and stopped. The flame bent toward his fingers like a dog that might bite. He blew once. The light fought him, then went out with a small spin of smoke.
He stepped back from the circle.
The collar pulsed again. Cold flowed down into his chest and came back as a tight ache behind the breastbone. It wasn't pain exactly. It was pressure. Like the space under a storm before the first drop hits.
As he left the ring, whispers tracked him.
"Is that safe?"
"Old blood tricks."
"Crown-bait."
"Vessel," someone said softly, like they didn't mean to say it out loud.
Teren kept walking. He didn't speed up and he didn't slow down.
He passed Serin.
"Try not to trip over your own legend," Serin said, voice light.
"Try not to drown in yours," Teren said, voice flat.
Serin's smile sharpened. His golden flame didn't flicker.
Neris fell into step on Teren's right. "How cold?" she asked.
"Bone deep," he said.
"Any squeeze? Like a hand?"
"Not yet." He swallowed. The metal tasted like blood and a penny. "Feels like it's counting."
"Counting what?"
"No idea," he said.
Brann joined on Teren's left, keeping pace without crowding. "You want a cloak over it? People are staring."
Teren considered. The collar was a fact now. Hiding it wouldn't make it quiet. Still—eyes burned, and not just from smoke. "Yeah," he said.
Brann shrugged off his old gray cloak and swung it around Teren's shoulders in one neat move. The fabric smelled like rain and hay. The cold stayed, but the look from the benches softened. Some lost interest. Others didn't.
The proctor lifted his staff again. "Proceed," he called. "Next candidate."
The hall shifted back to the machine it was. Sparks. Vows. Flame judging. The sound of quills above.
But the air had changed. Every new oath took shape around the iron on Teren's neck, as if the collar had become an extra witness no one had invited.
Neris touched Teren's sleeve. "We're done here," she said. "Office will want you in the Quiet Room before anyone decides you're a parade."
Serin heard "Quiet Room" and the corner of his mouth tilted. "Good," he said. "Silence might teach him manners."
"Silence might teach you humility," Neris said without looking at him.
Serin's smile didn't move. "I'm unteachable."
"Tragic," Brann said.
They reached the doors. The words carved above them seemed to hum with heat and ash.
CROWNS DON'T SIT. spelled out alive breathing on the door almost pulsing like it's been waiting for the vessel