Morning mist still clung to the peaks when Kaelen awoke. The air above Emberveil Sect always smelled faintly of ash—sweet and sharp at once, like burnt cedar carried through clean mountain wind. From his small courtyard halfway up the disciple's ridge, he could see the faint silhouettes of spirit forges sparking across the distance, their crimson glow pulsing in rhythm with the sect's protective array.
For a long time, he simply sat there, tracing the lines of light that wove across the sky—veins of flame that marked Emberveil's heart. This was a sect that built its strength on fire: the cultivation of heat, destruction, and rebirth. But what few ever mentioned aloud was that Emberveil's true legacy lay in control—the art of holding back what could consume.
A knock came at his door."Still brooding this early?" It was Verran, a fellow outer disciple whose easy grin often softened the rigid hierarchy around them. "Elder Ryn's summons. All initiates from last month are to attend."
Kaelen nodded, brushing ash from his robes. The faint black mark on his wrist—the remnant of his last attempt to merge flame essence—throbbed once. He ignored it.
The outer disciple square was already crowded by the time he arrived. Rows of crimson robes moved in unison as the Sect's banners fluttered above, depicting a single burning sigil: the Phoenix Fang.
Elder Ryn stood before them, tall and hawk-eyed, his voice like a blade drawn across stone."You wear our colors, but not yet our fire. Remember this—the Emberveil Sect is not a refuge for the weak. Our flames burn only for those who can master themselves."
At his side stood Joren.
The crowd whispered his name with reverence. Joren had risen faster than any initiate in decades, his flames golden instead of red—a mark of a rare divine resonance. The elders praised him openly, calling him the Sect's future.
Kaelen watched silently.
Joren's confidence had grown sharper since the trial. His words came heavier now, threaded with something that felt like pride dressed as conviction.When Elder Ryn announced that Joren would lead the next round of field missions, Kaelen caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction on the boy's face—pride, and something else underneath.
That evening, Kaelen wandered beyond the disciples' quarters, where the sect's true skeleton showed itself.Beyond the gardens and courtyards, Emberveil stretched deep into the mountain itself—a labyrinth of flameforges, elemental conduits, and sealed vaults where the sect stored relics from older ages.
He passed an open forge yard, where spirit blacksmiths tempered weapons with molten qi. Their chants wove through the roar of fire as each strike sent ripples of light into the air. Overhead, translucent runes shimmered, feeding spiritual flame from the sect's core reservoir.
Kaelen paused there for a moment, breathing it in.
There was beauty in this violence—heat bent to will, flame shaped into purpose. Yet every spark whispered the same warning: Fire remembers everything it touches.
He moved further up the ridge until the sect's noise faded. There, hidden among the basalt cliffs, a faint pulse of energy drew him in—familiar, faintly corrupt. He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small ember locked within a jade case, its glow weak but alive.
The Devourer's Fang.
He had taken only a shard from the beast's remains, but even that fragment throbbed with restless hunger.
He placed it on the ground and knelt before it.
"Fire can consume," he murmured, "but can it… listen?"
He pressed his palm over the ember, letting his spiritual energy brush its edge. The heat bit into him, wild and venomous. His breathing steadied, pupils narrowing as tendrils of flame coiled up his arm. He tried to shape it—bind it—yet it refused.
Pain tore through him, and the connection snapped. Smoke rose from his hand, skin blistered, but beneath the ache… something pulsed.
A whisper.
Not in words, but in sensation—like a hunger tasting him back.
He exhaled slowly, shaking, but his eyes held a strange light.
This was dangerous knowledge. Forbidden. Yet for the first time, Kaelen felt as if the flame wasn't rejecting him—it was testing him.
Below, the sect roared with celebration. The elders toasted Joren's new title as Provisional Squad Leader.
But up here, Kaelen sat alone beside that faintly pulsing ember, his hand trembling and scorched. Between his breaths, the mountain wind carried the faint hiss of a whisper only he could hear.
A promise—or perhaps, a warning.