(Ren Kaien POV)
They whisper her name like it's a prayer, or a curse.
Lián Xinyue.
By sunrise, her story had already reached every corridor of the Crimson Palace. Servants bowed lower. The High Seer locked herself in the inner sanctum. Even the Ember Priests refused to say what they saw in the flames.
I've lived among fire all my life, but I've never seen it choose someone it didn't intend to consume.
Until her.
The courtyard is empty when I arrive. Morning light cuts through the haze, reflecting off the Blackstone tiles. The smell of smoke never fades here, it clings to the walls, the earth, the breath of every living soul in the Flame Court.
She's already waiting.
Lián Xinyue stands at the edge of the training circle, her hair braided high, plain robes instead of silk. There's no fear in her stance, only a wary stillness. Like a blade left cooling after it's been forged.
"You're early," I say, stepping into the circle.
"You said dawn," she replies, not bowing, not even looking away. "So I came."
Her voice is calm. Controlled. But her hands, her hands twitch faintly, as if they remember the burn from yesterday.
I draw my blade, the edge shimmering faintly with runes of heat. "Tell me," I say, circling her slowly, "what did the flames show you during the Choosing?"
"I don't remember," she answers. "Only that they didn't hurt."
"Flames always hurt," I say quietly. "If they don't, it means they've claimed you."
She looks up sharply. "Claimed?"
"The Emberfire binds what it wants," I say, lowering the sword. "It takes loyalty, or it takes life. There is no middle ground."
"And which did it take from you?"
The question catches me off guard. No one dares ask me things like that, not my captains, not the Seer, not even my father. But she says it without hesitation, as if she's trying to understand something deeper than rank or danger.
I should be angry. Instead, I find myself almost smiling. "Both," I answer. "Come."
I toss her a wooden staff. She catches it, though the weight nearly pulls her off balance.
"We train until the bell rings," I say. "You fall, you rise again. You bleed, you keep fighting. The Emberborn must master their flame before it devours them."
She studies the staff, then glances at me. "And if I fail?"
"Then you'll die before the court wastes more time pretending you're their miracle."
The words land harsh, but necessary. Kindness kills faster than fire in this palace.
We begin.
At first, she moves awkwardly, each swing stiff, every parry too slow. But there's focus in her eyes, not fear. She learns faster than most soldiers I've trained. By the fourth exchange, she anticipates my feint. By the sixth, she nearly strikes my wrist.
"Better," I say.
"Not enough," she mutters, adjusting her grip. Sweat glistens on her temple, a strand of hair sticking to her cheek. The morning light catches the faint golden sheen in her eyes, the same color I saw when the flames rose around her yesterday.
Something stirs beneath my ribs. I ignore it.
She lunges again. I sidestep, twist, and disarm her in a single motion. The staff clatters to the ground. Before she can recover, I place the sword at her throat. The heat radiating from the blade should have burned her skin.
It doesn't.
Her pulse flutters beneath the metal, steady and calm. She meets my gaze without flinching.
"Do it," she says quietly. "If you think I'll break, then finish it now."
The audacity. The courage. Or maybe just madness.
I lower the blade slowly. "You mistake me for someone merciful," I say, turning away.
"No," she answers, voice soft but sure. "I mistake you for someone still human."
The words hang between us. The morning wind stirs the embers drifting from the palace brazier, scattering them like tiny stars. For a moment, I can't breathe.
Because she's right.
And because no one else has ever dared say it.
Later, after she's dismissed, I stay in the courtyard alone.
The sword feels heavier than before. I run a thumb along the rune-marked steel, remembering her face, defiant, alive, unburned. The fire within her was not chaos. It was recognition.
I've seen that kind of flame once before.
In my mother.
She burned half the capital to ashes before she died, whispering a prophecy through the smoke. "The Hollow Flame will awaken in flesh, and the heir will choose whether to burn or be reborn."
I thought it was madness. Now I'm not so sure.
I sheath my sword. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, bells begin to toll, long, low, and distant.
The Hollow Flame is stirring again.
And Lián Xinyue might be the spark that wakes it.
That evening, the High Seer summons me. Her chamber smells of incense and blood. A crimson veil hides her eyes as she speaks.
"You tested her?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"She survived."
The Seer exhales slowly. "Then the prophecy is in motion. Keep her close, Your Highness. The fire that spares her may one day devour you."
I meet her hidden gaze. "Or she may save us all."
"Even flames that save still burn," the Seer murmurs.
I leave the chamber with the weight of her words heavy in my chest. Outside, the moon rises red over the palace. Somewhere in the training quarters, I can almost feel Xinyue's presence, quiet, steady, defiant.
The Emberfire hums faintly under my skin, restless.
Maybe the Seer is right. Maybe this will end in ashes.
But for the first time in years, I don't dread the fire.
I want to see where it leads.