The underground complex beneath the Théâtre de l'Illusion Perdue was far larger than Elaric had imagined.
Corridors branched away from the Tarot hall like the roots of an ancient tree, winding deep into the earth. Oak doors marked private quarters. Iron-sealed vaults guarded libraries and ritual chambers whose purposes he could only guess. The air carried the scent of old paper and candle wax—layered with something sharper beneath, like ozone after lightning, the lingering residue of Beyonder power.
They gave him a room of his own.
Small. Windowless. Clean.
A narrow bed. A writing desk. A wardrobe. A single gas lamp burning with a steady blue flame that never flickered. On the desk lay fresh notebooks, ink and pens—and a sealed letter stamped with the blank Fool card.
Elaric broke the seal that night.
Welcome, Ember Seer.
Training begins at dawn. Do not be late.
— The Magician
Sleep came in fragments.
Villages burned behind his eyelids. Empty eye sockets stared back at him from the dark. Lanterns swayed, dripping crimson light—
—KNOCK—
Elaric jolted upright.
Fors Wall leaned against the doorway, hands in her pockets, crimson hair a mess, grin lazy and unapologetic.
"Rise and shine, kid," she said. "Lesson one: never trust a schedule written by a Magician."
Elaric squinted at the lamp. "It's still night."
"Exactly," Fors replied. "Best time to learn how to see."
The training chamber lay deep beneath the complex.
A circular room with a domed ceiling painted black, pricked with tiny points of light like a starless sky. In the center stood a single bronze brazier, cold and empty.
Fors shut the door behind them.
—CLICK—
The lock engaged without a mechanism.
"First rule," she said, circling him slowly. "Show me everything. No holding back."
Elaric hesitated. "It costs me."
"I know," Fors said lightly. "But you're not alone anymore. Here, we teach you how to pay smarter."
He inhaled.
And began.
Spark Ignition.
A flame bloomed between his palms—small at first, then growing until a fist-sized orb of crimson fire hovered in the air. It gave off no heat, only light.
That light peeled illusions away.
Dust motes revealed themselves as tiny doors suspended in space. A section of wall shimmered, exposing a false surface layered over stone.
Fors whistled. "Nice. Most Sequence Nines would've set their eyebrows on fire."
Ashen Whispers.
He touched the brazier.
Voices rose immediately—faint, overlapping, scorched into the metal itself.
"…the ritual must be finished before the stars—"
"…he betrayed us—"
"…the ember will rise again—"
Elaric recoiled.
Fors shrugged. "Old meeting place. Secrets love to burn. You'll learn to filter the noise."
Then—
Fate Glimpse.
He focused on Fors.
The world fractured.
A younger Fors, hunched over parchment, candlelight trembling as she wrote.
A door opening onto a storm-tossed sea.
A floating library drifting through darkness.
A letter sealed in green wax—handed to her by a man whose face Elaric couldn't quite see.
And beneath it all—
A thread of fate, burning low.
A promise waiting to be broken.
The ember in his chest faltered.
His knees buckled.
Fors caught him instantly.
"That's enough," she said sharply.
She pressed a vial into his hand. Clear liquid. Herbal scent.
"Spectator tonic. Won't refill the ember—but it'll stop you from collapsing."
Warmth spread through him as he drank, easing the hollow ache.
"You saw too much," Fors said quietly. "Rule one of Beyonder society: don't pry where you wouldn't want fire returned."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know. That's why you're training."
She straightened and gestured to the brazier.
"Light it. Properly."
He did.
Wood and coal caught fire, ordinary orange flames rising.
"Now," Fors said, "use Ember Sense."
Elaric closed his eyes.
The brazier burned strong—healthy, stable.
But beyond it…
Flickers.
A ritual candle burned here decades ago.
A letter of resignation once thrown into flame.
A hope carried by someone above them—slowly dying.
And deeper—
Something ancient beneath the floor.
Cold.
Extinguished.
But remembered.
"Too many," he whispered.
"Focus," Fors said. "Dial it down. Like adjusting a gas lamp."
Slowly, the noise faded—until only the brazier remained.
"Good," Fors said. "Now snuff it."
Elaric froze. "But the requirement—"
"This flame isn't dying," she interrupted. "It's thriving. Snuff it."
He pinched the air.
—FSSSS—
The fire died.
Pain stabbed through his chest—the pathway protested, sharp and angry.
"Feel that?" Fors asked. "Good. Relight it."
He did.
The fire returned.
The pain faded.
"That," Fors said, "is choice. The ember wants preservation—but you teach it what deserves preserving."
Elaric swallowed. "So… I can let some things die?"
Fors's voice softened. "Everything dies. Even gods. Wisdom is knowing which deaths nourish life—and which only leave ash."
They trained for hours.
Precision instead of excess.
Scalpels instead of floods.
Illusion layered into flame.
Fate glimpsed through narrowed focus.
By midday, Elaric trembled with exhaustion—but the hollow felt controlled.
Manageable.
They ate in silence.
Leonard joined them, bandaged but moving easily.
"How's he doing?"
Fors grinned. "Better than expected."
Leonard slid a newspaper across the table.
MYSTERIOUS FIRES IN TRIER SUBURBS — VICTIMS FOUND WITH EYES REDUCED TO ASH
Elaric's stomach clenched.
"They're here," he whispered.
"They're hunting," Leonard corrected. "And not just cultists."
That night, alone in his room, Elaric laid out three tarot cards.
Past: The Tower — upright.
Present: The Hanged Man — reversed.
Future: Death — upright.
He ignited a spark.
Hidden ink bloomed—crimson threads connecting the cards, leading to a fourth.
The Fool.
No longer blank.
A boy carried a lantern with a dying ember.
Behind him, curtained shadows reached out.
Elaric extinguished the flame.
Training had begun.
So had the hunt.
Above, Trier slept uneasily.
Below, a twelve-year-old learned what it meant to carry fire in a world that feared light.
And somewhere in the city—
—FWOOOM—
Lanterns ignited.
The ember burned on.
Hungry.