The days in the Ember Sanctum blurred into one another.
Searing heat, endless training, bruises layered upon bruises.
Every morning, Elira woke to the clang of steel and the roar of fire. By midday, her muscles screamed. By night, she collapsed onto her stone bed, dreams consumed by visions of flames and wings. She was no longer the girl who had wandered into the Sanctum half-broken; she was being remade.
Vaelith ensured it.
"Again," the dragon growled, circling her in the courtyard. His massive wings stirred the ash around them. "Hold the flame steady. Control is survival."
Elira's palms burned, fire gathering between them in a sphere. Sweat poured down her brow as she gritted her teeth.
Marcell stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with his usual smirk. "Don't drop it this time."
"Shut up," she hissed, her focus wavering—
The flame imploded, a shockwave knocking her back onto the ground. The courtyard rumbled, and Vaelith's laughter shook the air like rolling thunder.
"At least you did not scorch your own hair this time," he rumbled.
Elira groaned, brushing ash off her cheek. "You're enjoying this."
"Of course," Vaelith said, teeth gleaming. "Fire reveals truth. And your truth, little heir, is that you are stubborn enough to survive anything."
That evening, Serenya summoned her again—this time not to lecture, but to test.
The Ember Core pulsed brighter than ever, painting the council chamber in molten light. Commanders stood in their obsidian armor, silent and stern. Serenya's gaze was unreadable.
"Elira," she said, voice low, "it is time you prove yourself. The flame accepts no weak heir."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Marcell shifted beside her. "Prove? What does that mean?"
"The Trial of Embers," Serenya answered. "Every Heir must endure it. Those who fail are consumed. Those who succeed… become flame."
Elira's stomach knotted. She barely managed to keep her fire from exploding in her hands during training. And now she was expected to survive something that killed others?
But Vaelith's voice coiled through her mind. Do not flinch. This is the path of your blood.
She drew a shaky breath. "When?"
Serenya's ember eyes locked onto hers. "Now."
They led her deep beneath the Sanctum, past molten rivers and jagged halls, to a cavern where the air shimmered with unbearable heat. At its center burned a pool of living fire—liquid flame that writhed like a restless beast.
"This is the Ember Vein," Serenya said. "The heart of the First Flame runs through it. To be heir, you must step into its depths."
Elira's throat went dry. "Step into fire?"
"You will either emerge reborn… or not at all."
Marcell grabbed her arm. "This is insane. You can't just—"
Serenya's voice cut sharp. "He cannot walk this trial for her."
Marcell's grip tightened. His eyes searched hers, full of fear, of anger, of the desperate loyalty only a brother-like bond could carry. "Elira, you don't have to do this."
She forced a small smile, though her insides trembled. "I think I do."
Before he could stop her, she stepped forward.
The heat scorched her skin, the light seared her eyes—but she did not stop. One step. Two. Her body screamed. The fire licked at her legs, her arms, her chest—then swallowed her whole.
Flame devoured everything.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't see. Only burning, endless burning. Her skin felt like it peeled away, her bones melting, her very soul unraveling. She wanted to scream, but the fire filled her lungs.
And then—voices.
Unworthy.
Weak.
Child of ash.
They whispered from the fire, shapes flickering in the blaze—Celestials of light, their halos twisted, their eyes cruel. They reached for her with hands of fire.
You cannot escape us, Heir. You will burn like the rest.
Her heart pounded. Fear clawed at her—but then another voice cut through.
Marcell's voice. You always have a choice.
Her trembling fists clenched. She dragged her hands through the flame—and instead of consuming her, it bent. The searing agony dulled into something sharper, steadier. The fire curled around her like armor, like a second skin.
Her eyes snapped open, glowing like molten gold.
"No," she whispered, voice steady. "I don't burn. I blaze."
The Ember Vein roared, fire spiraling upward in a column that shook the cavern.
And when it cleared, Elira stood in the center, wreathed in living flame, her hair drifting like embers, her eyes alight with power.
The commanders knelt. Serenya bowed her head. Even Vaelith rumbled with pride.
"The Heir has awakened," Serenya declared.
Marcell's breath caught as he rushed forward, eyes wide. "Elira…"
She turned to him, the fire dimming just enough to show the girl beneath. And though she smiled, something in her had changed forever.
Far above, in the heavens, the Celestials felt the flare of her power.
The council stirred.
"She has passed the trial," one spat.
"Then the time has come," another hissed.
"Let us send the first blade."
And in the skies beyond the Rift, wings of light unfurled, descending toward the world below.