The training hall of House Deythar was a cathedral of discipline—vaulted ceilings carved with hymns to Aurelion, sunlight streaming through crystal panes that refracted into golden rays upon the polished marble floor. Rows of weapon racks gleamed, and the faint scent of oil and incense clung to the air. Today, it was more than a hall; it was a crucible. Here, the youngest son of Deythar would be tested—not for faith alone, but for will, instinct, and the terrifying seed of potential he harbored.
Caelum stood at the center, his small frame cloaked in shadows cast by towering statues of past Deythar champions. His siblings had already walked this path, demonstrating flames that could sear steel, chains of light that bound like celestial judgment, and radiant shields that could blind lesser men. Their brilliance had echoed through these halls. Now, all eyes turned to him—the boy whose awakening had stirred unease, curiosity, and whispered comparisons to the legends of old.
The Armsmaster, broad-shouldered and scarred from a lifetime of campaigns, loomed nearby. Though he would not personally duel Caelum, his gaze was a hammer heavy with expectation. "Your kin wield power that sings in harmony with Aurelion's light," he said, voice steady, neither cruel nor kind. "Your flame, boy, is untested. Show us if it is but a spark destined to die—or the dawn of something greater."
Caelum inclined his head, expression unreadable. If only you knew, Alaric whispered within him. A spark can ignite an inferno. A word can unravel empires.
The first to step forward was a boy a few years older, wiry but quick, wielding a staff infused with faint light. He was no paragon of flame or chain, but disciplined—fast hands, quick reflexes, the kind of fighter who built victories from pressure and patience.
The match began with sudden speed. The staff blurred in arcs, each strike measured but relentless, forcing Caelum to retreat step by step. The polished marble rang with each sharp crack of wood against stone. One strike grazed his shoulder, drawing murmurs from the onlookers.
Caelum did not flinch. He moved with minimal effort, his expression almost bored. Then—he snapped his fingers.
The sharp crack echoed like flint striking steel.
"Spark."
A red-gold ember leapt from his fingertip, clinging stubbornly to the wood of the staff. The older boy sneered, pressing harder, staff whirling faster, until sweat gleamed along his brow. Caelum's smile was faint, cruel in its quiet certainty.
"Ignite."
The ember roared into flame, devouring the staff's length in a surge of fire. The boy cursed, dropping the weapon before it seared through his palms. The staff clattered, rolling across marble, embers scattering.
Caelum advanced. His fingers snapped again—crack, crack, crack—each step feeding the flames higher, until the discarded weapon was nothing but blackened ash. He stopped just short of his opponent, voice calm but edged with steel.
"What is fire," Caelum asked, voice soft but carrying, "but faith made tangible? A single spark births warmth… or ruin. It is not the flame that destroys, but the will that commands it."
The boy staggered back, defeated not by wounds, but by the weight of words that bent the air around them.
The Armsmaster narrowed his eyes, though his expression betrayed no judgment yet.
"Next."
The next to step forward was a girl a little older than Caelum, her hands glowing with radiant light. Unlike the first, she did not circle cautiously—she raised her palms immediately, weaving her gift into spears of brilliance. Three shimmered into existence, their edges sharp with divine fire.
"Begin."
The spears shot forth like lightning. Gasps rose from the gallery. Caelum extended a hand, palm outward, and his decree slipped between his lips like a commandment:
"Slow."
The first spear lurched midair, its momentum dragged into molasses. Caelum turned his body with elegant calm, letting it drift harmlessly past him. The second spear blazed closer—he whispered again:
"Break."
It splintered into shards of dull glass, collapsing in a rain of sparks.
The third hurtled forward, aimed straight at his chest. He snapped his fingers—crack—and murmured, "Betray."
The spear faltered, twisting in its course, wheeling mid-air like a falcon gone feral. It spun back, hissing toward its own maker. She gasped, forcing her light to scatter before it struck her down. Sweat beaded her forehead, composure cracking as murmurs swept the hall.
Caelum approached slowly, each step deliberate. "Light dazzles," he said, his voice carrying in the hushed silence. "But light blinds. Your brilliance turned upon yourself, and you faltered. That is the truth of faith—it can reveal, or it can betray."
Her knees hit the floor, not by his decree this time, but from the sheer weight of being turned against herself.
The Armsmaster exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharpening. Too clean, his expression seemed to say. Too controlled.
The last opponent strode forward with the confidence of youth hardened by years of training. Broad-shouldered, flame already coiling around his arms, he moved with the assurance of one who expected to win. His fists burned like hammers of molten steel.
"No tricks, Caelum," he said, his tone edged with disdain. "Face me in true combat."
Caelum's lips curved faintly. "True combat," he echoed. "So be it."
The boy charged, fists blazing. Caelum snapped his fingers once, twice, thrice—sparks scattering into the air like seeds cast upon the wind. The punch roared toward his chest. Caelum whispered:
"Ignite."
The very atmosphere ignited, flames erupting into a wall of searing heat. Gasps erupted. The boy staggered, shielding his face, but forced himself through with a roar, fists blazing brighter. He swung—Caelum met the blow with a flame-clad palm. The hall rang with the impact, marble scorched underfoot.
Another punch came. Caelum twisted, sparks clinging to his body like embers in orbit. He snapped his fingers again—crack—and whispered:
"Halt."
The fiery punch halts inches from Caelum's chest, frozen in air as if chained by an unseen will. Caelum seized the moment, stepping in close, his own flames wrapping tighter, brighter, more alive than borrowed faith. He whispered once more, his voice low but inexorable:
"Yield."
The word carried the gravity of judgment. His opponent's body stiffened, will cracking beneath it. The fire on his fists sputtered, dimmed, then extinguished entirely. His knees struck marble, smoke curling from the scorched floor.
The hall fell silent.
Caelum stood above him, flame wreathing his arms like gauntlets of kingship. His eyes burned brighter than the fire he commanded, his breath calm, unbroken.
"Faith," he said, voice carrying through the hushed hall, "is not begged for. It is taken. Demanded. Burned into the world until all that resists is ash."
The Armsmaster studied him for a long moment, unreadable. "You carry a dangerous gift, Caelum Deythar. It will burn your path clear—or consume you."
But Caelum was no longer listening.
The flames curled around his hands, then faded, leaving only the warmth against his skin. He looked down at them, at the faint trails of smoke drifting into the golden light streaming from the crystal windows.
Alaric was ash. Forgotten. Buried.
Here, now, was something new. Something reborn.
I am Caelum.
Not dust. Not steel. Fire itself, clothed in flesh and will. A decree not spoken, but lived.
And fire, once lit, does not beg for permission. It consumes. It remakes.
In the silence of the hall, Caelum breathed deeply, the lingering scent of smoke filling his lungs. So long as the flame endures, so long as faith bends to me… I will not be extinguished.
The boy was gone.
Only the king remained.
And the world would burn to remember his name.