Sleep refused to come easily that night.
Even when Kaelen closed his eyes, the ember's afterglow lingered behind his eyelids—an orange pulse, rhythmic and alive, as though the fragment he'd sealed in the jade case was still watching him.
He lay still on the wooden floor of his small chamber, the flicker of a candle casting restless shadows across the walls. Every breath he took came with a faint heat curling in his lungs, like smoke that wouldn't leave.
When dawn finally touched the ridges, he rose quietly, his body aching. The burn on his hand had already begun to fade—unnaturally fast.
He didn't know whether to take that as a gift or a warning.
The training fields were alive by sunrise. Rows of disciples practiced their flame sequences beneath towering basalt pillars engraved with runic sigils. When a technique struck correctly, the runes shimmered in response, channeling feedback to strengthen the user's core.
Kaelen moved to the far side of the field, away from the others. He'd never liked training in crowds—too many eyes, too much noise.
He began his morning cycle, drawing his spiritual energy upward in a slow spiral. The familiar flow of flame essence gathered around him, warm and bright… but beneath it, a new current stirred—darker, more fluid.
He exhaled sharply.
The fire bent in an unfamiliar way, curling against his skin instead of away from it. It felt almost alive.
He stopped mid-form, beads of sweat forming on his brow. No one else seemed to notice. The other disciples laughed, shouted, and flung their sparks into the air like fireworks.
But Kaelen's flame refused to obey.
When he tried to release the energy, it clung to his palm—sticky, humming. The faintest trace of shadow threaded through it, like soot swirling inside a clear flame.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Fire essence was pure—an energy of transformation and rebirth. Yet what he felt now… was hunger.
He forced the technique to dissipate, the air shivering as the flames collapsed. The shockwave drew a few glances his way.
"Too much focus, Stormborn?" Verran called from a distance, smirking.
Kaelen didn't respond. His heart was racing.
After drills, he visited the Hall of Resonance—a grand, circular chamber at the sect's center where initiates meditated beneath the Phoenix mural that crowned the ceiling. The painted bird's wings shimmered faintly, infused with runic light that resonated with every disciple's inner fire.
Sitting among dozens of others, Kaelen tried to steady his breathing. Around him, the chamber was filled with the soft hum of cultivation—each flame flickering in harmony with the others, feeding into the sect's great pulse.
But his rhythm faltered.
When he drew his essence upward, the ember's whisper slithered through again, subtle yet insistent.
Feed me.
He stiffened, eyes snapping open. The whisper had no voice—only sensation. Like pressure beneath his skin, coaxing him to reach deeper into the well of his soul sea.
He tried to resist, but the urge was intoxicating. His energy flared, drawing startled looks from nearby disciples. The runes above the mural pulsed once, crimson lines brightening unnaturally.
And then—silence.
Elder Ryn's presence cut through the chamber like a gust of cold wind. "Enough."
Kaelen jerked back to himself, heart pounding. He hadn't realized how far he'd gone. The firelight dimmed around him, and all eyes turned away.
Elder Ryn's gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer before moving on.
No reprimand. No words. Just that look—a mixture of suspicion and curiosity that left Kaelen's stomach hollow.
By evening, the sect was awash in amber light. Kaelen found himself sitting on the outer terrace, overlooking the river of flame essence that flowed beneath the mountain's veins. From here, the Emberveil Sect seemed eternal—an empire carved from light and discipline.
Yet in its beauty, he sensed danger.
The elders preached unity, but beneath that harmony lay endless competition. Every disciple fought for recognition, for a chance to rise through the ranks—from outer to inner, from inner to core. Some are trained to master the Seven Burning Paths. Others pursued the Rituals of Rebirth—a dangerous art rumored to grant control over the flames of destruction.
But none spoke of the sect's hidden branch—The Cindersworn.
Whispers said they were chosen by the inner council, trained in silence to control darker flames—the kind that could consume the soul itself.
Kaelen had dismissed those stories once. Now, with the ember's voice in his veins, he wasn't so sure.
He turned his hand upward, watching a small wisp of flame gather above his palm. It burned blue this time. Faint, flickering, but wrong in all the ways that fire shouldn't be.
It didn't give light—it drank it.
He closed his fist, extinguishing it before anyone could see.
That night, he dreamt again.
He stood in a field of blackened ash. Above him, the sky burned crimson, clouds bleeding fire. From the charred earth rose a single, skeletal beast—its jaw lined with molten fangs, eyes smoldering with unspent hunger.
The Devourer.
Its gaze fixed on him, not with hatred but with recognition.
You seek control, it whispered. But you are learning to feed.
Kaelen woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The jade case beside his bed was glowing faintly, as if something inside had stirred.
He reached for it instinctively—then stopped.
For the first time, he wasn't sure whether the ember was responding to him… or calling him back.