The mountain bled light.
Every night, the molten veins pulsed from within, filling the halls with a soft, living glow — red and gold mixing like blood in water.The Devouring Embers Sect wasn't carved into the volcano. It was grown out of it, its foundations fed by the same fire it worshipped.
Kaelen had learned this after weeks of silence — watching, listening, and pretending to be just another miner. But his nights had changed everything. The ash veins beneath his skin now whispered like restless roots, urging him to dig deeper.
He didn't sleep anymore. Spirits didn't need to. What little rest he allowed himself came only when the mountain itself seemed to sigh.
And tonight, it was whispering something new.
He waited until the last overseer's footsteps faded before moving.Every motion was measured — quiet, controlled. The silver glow under his skin pulsed faintly as he crouched beside the conduit that ran along the cavern floor.
He pressed his palm against the rune.
At first, nothing. Then came the familiar hum — low, heavy, alive. He aligned his breath to it, syncing his pulse with the pattern.
The flame answered.
A trickle of molten energy flowed up his arm. Pain lanced through him, but it was distant now — almost familiar.His veins burned with silver light.
But something was wrong.
The rhythm changed.
Instead of a smooth pulse, the rune beneath his palm shuddered. It was as if something else had entered the current — something aware.
Kaelen's eyes opened sharply. The conduit was glowing brighter, its symbols twisting. He yanked his hand away, but the heat followed him, coiling around his wrist like a living brand.
"Who dares draw from the mountain unmarked?"
The voice didn't come from behind him.It came from below.
Kaelen stumbled back, staring as the molten conduit began to rise — not physically, but through light and shadow. A faint humanoid shape took form, its body made of liquid rune-fire and flickering symbols that flowed across its skin.
Its face was unreadable, carved from heat itself.
Kaelen knew instantly who it was.The Blood Scribe.
Every sect whispered about him — the one who carved the runes into stone, who shaped the mountain's fire with his own essence. It was said his blood had mixed with the volcano's core centuries ago, binding him forever to its heart.
Now, he stood before Kaelen — or something of him did.
The air grew dense, pressing on Kaelen's shoulders until his bones creaked.
"You carry a scent of theft," the Scribe said. His tone was calm, but the heat of it flayed the edges of Kaelen's spirit. "Who gave you the right to touch the veins?"
Kaelen forced his gaze up. "No one. I was only… studying."
"Studying," the Scribe repeated. "A Forged Soul with no elder's mark, daring to read the mountain."
The symbols along his arms began to stir. The runes shifted, forming words Kaelen didn't understand — ancient, winding, alive.
Kaelen knew he had to speak, but the pressure made thought difficult. "The mountain called to me," he said finally. "I heard it breathing. I thought… if I learned its rhythm, I could serve better."
The Scribe's eyes — pits of molten light — flickered.
For a long moment, silence.
Then the figure leaned forward. "You lie well, little flame."
The heat surged. Kaelen gritted his teeth as the mark on his wrist burned. The ash veins beneath his skin writhed, flaring bright enough to pierce the illusion that hid them.
The Scribe's head tilted. "Ah. So that's what you are."
Kaelen froze.
The words carried too much knowing — too much danger.
"You've been touched by another flame," the Scribe continued, voice soft now. "Not ours. Not born of the mountain's blood. Tell me… what ember birthed you?"
The serpent within Kaelen stirred — restless, protective.
A whisper filled his mind: Do not answer.
Kaelen clenched his jaw and bowed his head. "I don't understand what you mean, master."
The Scribe studied him, then slowly extended a hand. The air distorted — the runes around them bending inward like a storm of light.
Kaelen braced himself.
Then, as quickly as it came, the heat receded.
The Scribe withdrew his hand, letting the molten glow fade to a simmer. "Curious," he murmured. "You devour… but you do not burn. Keep feeding at this pace and you might live long enough to be useful."
Kaelen's breath caught. "You'll… let me continue?"
The Scribe smiled — a faint, cruel curve. "You've already marked yourself with the mountain's attention. To sever it now would kill you. Better to see what you become."
The light around him began to dim, the runes sinking back into the conduit.
"But remember," the Scribe added as his form dissolved into smoke and emberlight, "every spark leaves a trail. If your fire grows too quickly, I will come again."
Then he was gone.
The conduit pulsed once — and the cavern fell silent.
Kaelen stayed kneeling long after the air cooled. Sweat clung to his brow even though his body was no longer entirely flesh. He looked down at his arm.
The mark the Scribe left wasn't visible — not exactly — but he felt it.A thin line of heat pulsing beneath his skin, like a hidden rune waiting to awaken.
The serpent's voice broke the silence. He tasted you.
Kaelen nodded slowly. "I know."
And now he can follow the trail.
He rose, brushing the ash from his knees. The air still smelled faintly of burned stone and blood.
"So we'll have to move carefully," he murmured. "No more drawing from the main conduits. Only fragments… hidden channels."
The serpent shifted, curling around his soul like a shadow. Then we hunt smaller flames.
Kaelen's lips curved faintly. "Exactly."
By dawn, he had already begun.
The sect's lower levels were vast — an endless maze of forges, mines, and molten rivers. But between the conduits ran smaller streams, forgotten or sealed, each holding fragments of the same energy.
Kaelen found one behind a cracked obsidian wall, sealed by dust and time. The rune pattern was older — rougher — but still alive. He pressed his palm to it and felt the faintest heartbeat of power.
Perfect.
He let the energy flow slowly, matching its pulse to his own. Silver flame mingled with the emberlight, steady, silent.No eyes watching. No overseers near. No Scribe listening.
For the first time, the feeding felt natural — not stolen, not desperate.It was like breathing in rhythm with the mountain itself.
Above him, far from the lower caverns, the elders gathered in a circular hall of fireglass.One of them — robed in black with runes etched across his skin — spoke softly.
"The Blood Scribe moved last night."
Another elder frowned. "Unusual. He hasn't left the core chamber in decades."
"He marked someone," the first said. "A Forged Soul. No name listed. The runes didn't match our registry."
A long silence followed. Then, slowly, the eldest among them — his eyes glowing faintly with emberlight — whispered, "If the Scribe has found a flame that burns wrong… we must watch."
The fireglass reflected his gaze like a warning.
"Because sometimes," he said, "the mountain does not cleanse its mistakes. It hides them — until they burn everything else."