Marek was in the vacant warehouse, his fist tight in his palm. His environment was room temperature—anyone strolling past would notice nothing amiss.
He didn't experience normality, however. He felt something inside him waiting for a command.
The long hours of vigilance, studying the signs, learning to contain infinitesimal imperfections had led him to this. He didn't wish to reveal himself to anyone. He merely wished to test the limits.
Akira arrived late in the evening and stepped in without so much as an apology. She flicked a glance at Marek, at his hands, wrists folded inwards. "Ready?" she growled.
Yes," Marek snapped back curtly. His tone was focused. He did not have to persuade her. He required results.
She carried materials, books, and prior notations with her in her bag—recommendations they had found in the archives. They crossed their legs on crates stacked haphazardly in the room, unfolded the notes, and read them hurriedly.
The conversation was cold and crisp.
"First you demand communication," Akira stated. "Then training. Then evidence. Step by step.".
Marek nodded. "I want to speak with the one who chose me. I'd like to know if there are others, and what they expect."
Akira traced the creased lines on the old pages documenting rituals. "There were rites that used fire and oaths. Some mention touching a wall, a word that activates. But what the actual word was, it was never found. It's more of. a relationship with training.".
Show me," Marek answered. He wanted only a few words to go on.
Akira handed it to him the small metallic amulet she'd found in an old diary. It was simple, a small ring crossed by a single line. "This was on one of the pages. We don't know if it helps with focus, or if it's just symbolic. Try it.".
Marek tied the amulet around his neck. He could feel the cold of the metal. Then he touched it to his chest, where he could feel the presence.
He took a deep breath. For several minutes—nothing. Then something else happened. A gentle voice, distant and nearby, in his head. It wasn't Akira's. It wasn't his own inner voice; it was a voice of conviction. It had straightforward sentences, no unnecessary words.
You, who carry the heat," said the voice. "You awaken slowly. Your will is a grain. The flame-bearing word is in your oath."
Marek was not able to reply out loud. Inside, he felt a bond. The voice continued:
"Seven of us were selected. Seven oaths. He who will be last will carry the flame in all its power.".
The announcement was made in even tones. Marek's mind expanded with bland facts that answered a good portion of the questions unasked.
"Seven?" he whispered, more to confirm it wasn't a mistake.
"Seven," said the voice. "Not all are altered. Not all are prepared. Some will be lost even before the first test."
Akira watched his face. She saw something flash between him and something else.
"Do you feel it?" she asked, not afraid, seeking fact, proof.
Marek nodded. "Yes. More than that. He said there are seven of us. That whoever remains will be the actual heir."
Akira sat down more slowly. "Seven heirs. That means there are others. They might be close. They might already be… involved.".
We need to find them," Marek stated. "But now I want to practice. I want to know the limits of my control. I want that voice to know I am capable of more than trivial blemishes."
He practiced every day. Akira devised simple tasks which required focus.
First, small experiments—warming a tin can, burning matchsticks without touching them. Marek chronicled how he felt before, while he tried it, and afterwards. He logged feelings, mind states, everything. The idea was to prepare the phenomenon and then be able to cause it again and again.
One evening, working late one night, he stood in front of an empty metal bowl. Akira held her phone, chronicling information.
Focus on the heat. Don't think pictorially. Feel the power coming into your arm and let it run into your palm," she told him gently.
Marek shut his eyes.
He recalled the voice's words. Slow changes, breathing, focus. Nothing initially. Then a soft pressure in his palm, almost an affectionate stroking. He opened his eyes. A small flame, a mere few centimeters tall, flared in his hand.
It wasn't big. But it was substantial. It made no noise. The flame rested in his hand—it didn't explode, didn't burn his skin, it just hovered over his palm, origin not apparent.
Akira exhaled quietly. "See? It's here. You can hold onto it.".
Marek concentrated, feeling heat but not being burned. The flame responded to his brain—it did not blacken the objects near it, it suspended, held form. In that moment, Marek felt victory and something more. He recognized power was a gauge. It measured his boundary and his concept of right and wrong.
"How does it feel?" asked Akira.
"Control," said Marek. "And also… an answer."
The flame receded as he released it. The bowl was cold still. They had caught it on tape, they had taken the temperature. All of it was in sync. The evidence was palpable now. His ability was no longer a one-off anomaly, but a method of power that he could wield without danger.
After this first breakthrough, more training followed. He learned to regulate the size of the flame, to extend or extinguish it with will. He tried to conduct heat into metal, watching the shape alter.
Side effects emerged. When he thought too hard on fire, he recalled things he couldn't account for—fragments he had no explanation for—oaths snatched and unuttered, thunderous words in a tongue he did not speak, fleeting caresses in memory rather than actuality.
Akira warned, observed, and cautioned. "Don't forget—power has to be paced. Every step changes you and your mind."
Marek smiled without joy. "Yes. I know. But whoever waits for the last doesn't move slow. Those who wait lose."
This became his own motto. He did not have the patience to wait if something promised immediate growth. At first, he nudged tentatively. Soon enough, he tried more daring things. He began molding individuals who got in his way to reach out for information. He could not help it—it came so naturally.
One night, when the testing field looked frayed, another voice chimed in. Shorter, more casual.
"Hold on to memory of oaths," it said to him. "Remember their signs. Not all of us like the easy way."
There was warning and threat in those words.
"I want to know who the others are," he said aloud. "I want to know what they will do."
"You won't always be able to find them," the voice replied. "Some did not want to wake. Some are close. Prepare to make choices."
Marek knew the path would be swift. He had gained proof of power, visions of oaths, confirmation that he was not alone.
Meanwhile, he felt his metamorphosis. He was more conscious that his choices would have consequences. More conscious that power would dictate his priorities. He understood that when the time to battle the others arrived, it would not be a test of power anymore. It would be a battle of beliefs.
Akira gave him a sheet of notes. "Start collecting traces of the seven. Interrogate individuals marked with symbols. We'll discover whom to be interested in."
Marek took the sheet. "And what if we discover something else?" he asked.
"Then we continue," Akira said. "With caution."
Marek noticed again the spark in his mind, even without calling upon it. He looked at Akira and noticed the contrast—discipline and questioning. Combined it allowed them to move forward.
He also realized that until he found the others, he was vulnerable. Seven oath-bearers. Seven enemies. Only the seventh wins.
As they left the warehouse that night, Marek looked back. Not from fear, but from possibility. With a flame in his hand, knowledge of the seven, and the resolve to find those who might be foes or friends, he stepped down into the still street.
He knew the next step mattered. He also knew that he would never once more be merely a student. Now, he had power—and a strategy.