The sect library stood at the heart of the mountain — an ancient structure carved into living rock, older than the sect's banners, older even than its name. Few disciples visited the lower levels, and fewer still were permitted to.
Kaelen had spent his first two years sweeping its upper halls as part of his early duties — dusting scrolls, copying scripts, listening to the whispers of parchment and candlelight. He'd thought of it as punishment back then. Now he understood it had been an education.
The guards at the entrance barely glanced at him when he walked in. His robes were plain, his demeanor calm. No trace of rebellion, no hint of fire. Just another disciple seeking knowledge.
Inside, the library breathed softly — air heavy with ink, ash, and time. Thousands of scrolls lined the shelves, each humming faintly with sealing runes to preserve their age. Kaelen moved through them like a shadow, his footsteps soundless against stone.
He didn't head for the open study areas. He took the stairs spiraling downward instead — a narrow passage cut into the rock face, where the air grew colder and the lanterns dimmer.
The third level was marked with a ward — faint, invisible unless you'd been trained to see it. Kaelen felt its hum before he saw the faint shimmer against the wall.
He exhaled slowly, touching his fingers to the barrier. A pulse of heat stirred beneath his ribs, the ember flickering in answer.
Simple craft, it murmured. Woven to frighten, not to guard.
Kaelen didn't smile, but his eyes glinted. "Then guide me."
He pressed his palm against the stone. The ember responded, a quiet surge of warmth rippling down his arm. The ward rippled — once, twice — before dimming like a flame suffocating in wind. The air went still.
The path opened.
He stepped through.
Dust fell like snowflakes from the ceiling, the corridor narrow and lined with shelves that hadn't been touched in decades. Old scrolls, sealed jars, fragments of bone etched with runes. Forgotten things.
Kaelen's gaze lingered on one of the jars — a shard of blackened metal floating in thick resin. The tag beneath it read: Remnant, Origin Unknown.
He moved on.
At the end of the corridor stood a table, half-collapsed, with several open scrolls strewn across it. The text was old — predating modern sect script, written in looping characters few could read now. But Kaelen recognized pieces. The language of flame clans.
His breath caught.
He ran his fingers gently over the inked diagrams — the sketches of hearts wreathed in fire, of runes that resembled veins, of figures merging with spirits made of ash. And there — a word that stopped him cold:
"Devourer."
His pulse quickened. He leaned closer. The ink had faded, but the phrase was clear:
The Devourer is not a beast but a seed. A spark that feeds on imbalance. It binds to the one who understands loss… and teaches them hunger.
Kaelen read the line again. Slowly.
The ember inside him flared once, then settled — like a sigh through his bones.
Recognition, it whispered.
He closed the scroll carefully, his thoughts a storm.
If this "Devourer" was the ember, then it wasn't just energy — it was will, bound to a concept, drawn to a type of soul. A mirror of the person it lived within.
It explained the voice. The awareness. The way it responded not to commands, but to understanding.
Kaelen's hand trembled slightly. Not from fear, but something far subtler — fascination.
"Why me?" he murmured.
Because you don't run from your shadows.
He froze. The voice wasn't inside his head this time. It came from the darkness behind him.
Kaelen turned, every muscle tensing.
At the far end of the corridor, a figure stood half-shrouded in shadow — tall, still, their face hidden beneath a black hood. The faint shimmer of a concealment talisman clung to their robes.
He knew that presence.
The mysterious disciple.
The one who had appeared the night the ember first stirred.
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "You again."
The hood tilted slightly. "You've been busy, Kaelen."
His hand drifted toward the hilt of his blade. "You've been watching."
A soft chuckle. "Watching is what keeps the sect alive." The figure stepped forward — light touching pale lips, a glint of silver threading through dark hair. Their voice was low, almost melodic. "But you… you're something different. The ember didn't choose lightly."
Kaelen's expression didn't change. "You know what it is?"
The figure smiled faintly. "Enough to know it's older than your sect, older than mine, and that anyone who touches it either rises… or burns."
Silence stretched.
Kaelen broke it first. "Then why follow me?"
"Because I've seen both outcomes," the disciple said quietly. "And I want to see which one you become."
Kaelen's gaze hardened. "And if I burn?"
"Then perhaps something new will rise from your ashes."
The words hung there, quiet but heavy — like a prophecy spoken in jest.
Before Kaelen could reply, the disciple's form shimmered, the talisman pulsing once before they dissolved into shadow. Only a faint trace of heat lingered in the air.
Kaelen exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the empty corridor.
The ember pulsed once, faintly amused.
Curiosity feeds more than power, doesn't it?
He ignored the voice this time. Instead, he gathered the ancient scrolls into his arms — every fragment that mentioned the Devourer, every scrap that hinted at its nature.
If he was walking a path between light and flame, then he'd walk it with open eyes.
As he left the restricted corridor, sealing the ward back into place, dawn light began to filter through the upper levels of the library. The world outside was waking — disciples laughing, bells ringing for morning lessons.
Kaelen moved among them silently, the weight of forgotten knowledge pressing against his chest.
No one noticed the faint red glow in his eyes as he stepped into the sun.