Caravan limped forward after the raiders' defeat, but the victory felt hollow. Supplies were thin, wounds deep, and fear lingered in every step. The horizon stretched empty, yet Kaelen could not shake the feeling that something someone was watching.
That night, the refugees camped in the ruins of an abandoned watchtower. The stones were cracked, blackened by old fire, but it was shelter from the cold winds. Children huddled together, mothers whispered prayers, soldiers sharpened blades dulled by too much blood.
Kaelen sat apart, staring at the shard's faint glow beneath his skin. Its warmth was no longer comforting—it was hunger.
Ren sat beside him, tossing a dagger from hand to hand. "You're quieter than usual."
Kaelen didn't answer.
Ren smirked. "Don't tell me you're brooding over bandits now. We survived gods, Kael. Men with sticks aren't worth your nightmares."
Kaelen's eyes didn't leave the shard. "It's not them I'm afraid of."
Before Ren could respond, a shout echoed through the camp.
"Fire! Fire!"
But it wasn't the fire of torches or sparks from a hearth. It was a wall of flame rising at the edge of the ruins, bright as the sun, swallowing the night.
Refugees screamed, scattering. Soldiers rushed to form a line, shields raised, though none could stand against such heat.
From within the blaze, a figure walked.
She was cloaked in living fire, her hair a crown of burning embers, her eyes molten gold. Each step scorched the earth, yet the flames clung to her body as if they obeyed her command. And though the fire roared, her face bore no pain—only calm, as if she had worn the flame her entire life.
Selira whispered hoarsely, "By the gods… what is she?"
Malachor's staff trembled in his hand. "Not god… not mortal. Something in between."
The woman stopped at the edge of the camp, her gaze sweeping across the terrified crowd before settling on Kaelen.
"You," she said, her voice crackling like burning wood. "Shard-bearer. Your light calls to me."
Kaelen rose slowly, gripping his blade. "Who are you?"
The woman spread her burning hands. "I am Isolde. The Flame That Never Dies. Once a priestess of fire, now its vessel. The gods left me to burn, but I did not die. I became their ash, their rejection… and their vengeance."
The flames around her pulsed, rising higher, licking the stones of the watchtower.
Ren muttered, "I vote we run."
But Kaelen stepped forward. "If you've come for me, then speak it plain."
Isolde tilted her head, the firelight casting sharp shadows. "I have come to test you, shard-bearer. To see if your flame is worthy to burn beside mine—or to be consumed by it."
And with that, the watchtower exploded into fire.
Kaelen barely had time to raise his blade before the duel began.
The night became an inferno.
Flames surged upward as Isolde swept her hand, fire cascading like a wave. Kaelen dove aside, the heat searing his skin even through the shard's protective pulse. Refugees screamed, scrambling for safety as Selira's soldiers dragged them behind the crumbling walls.
Ren's voice rang out over the chaos. "Kaelen! Don't get roasted!"
But Kaelen wasn't listening. The shard inside him burned hotter, matching the fury of the firestorm. His vision blurred, his heartbeat hammering in rhythm with the flames.
Isolde's molten eyes locked on him. "Show me what you carry, shard-bearer. Prove your light is more than a dying ember."
She hurled another wave of fire. Kaelen raised his blade, and for the first time, the shard's energy surged into steel. The blade shone with a strange pale light, slicing through the flames, parting them like smoke.
Gasps rose from the refugees. Even Isolde's eyes widened slightly.
Kaelen charged, slashing at her through the curtain of fire. Sparks erupted as steel met flame—not burning, but clashing, as though her fire had weight, substance.
She smiled faintly. "Good."
Her fist clenched, and Kaelen was thrown back by a pillar of flame that struck like a hammer. He crashed against the stones of the watchtower, coughing smoke.
Malachor shouted, raising his staff. Water spilled from the cracked earth, dousing part of the blaze. "Enough! You'll kill us all!"
Isolde didn't even glance at him. "If the weak die, they were never meant to walk this road."
Kaelen staggered to his feet, rage boiling in his chest. "They're not weak! They're survivors! If you're here to test me, then test me—don't slaughter them!"
The shard flared, brighter than ever.
Kaelen rushed forward, blade blazing with pale fire. He struck again and again, every clash pushing Isolde back a step. The ruins shuddered, embers raining down like stars.
For the first time, her calm expression faltered.
With a cry, Kaelen drove his blade through the veil of fire, stopping just short of her throat. His chest heaved, the shard screaming inside him, demanding the final strike.
Isolde's flames wavered. She gazed at him, golden eyes searching. Then, slowly, the fire receded, dimming until only faint embers curled around her form.
She smiled—not cruelly, but with a strange, fierce respect.
"You… are not ash," she whispered. "You are storm. The gods will fear you, shard-bearer."
She stepped back, lowering her hands. "I came to see if you were worthy. Now I know. The flame that never dies will not burn you… it will stand beside you."
The refugees murmured in awe as the fire vanished entirely, leaving only smoke and silence.
Kaelen lowered his sword, his body trembling with exhaustion. "Then help us," he said hoarsely. "Help us survive."
Isolde inclined her head. "I will. But understand this: the gods will hunt me as they hunt you. By walking with me, you invite their wrath twice over."
Kaelen sheathed his blade. "Their wrath is already mine. If your flame burns against them, then let it burn beside me."
For the first time, her lips curved into a genuine smile. "So be it."
And thus, the Flame That Never Dies joined their march—a beacon of fire in a world drowning in shadow.