Morning light spilled through the upper halls of Emberveil like molten glass, glinting off the engraved flame sigils carved into the obsidian pillars. Where most saw beauty, Elder Solen saw discipline — order forged from chaos. Every glimmer of gold, every line of symmetry was a reminder of what the sect stood for.
Purity. Control. Containment.
And lately, he feared it was all beginning to crack.
Solen's robes whispered as he strode through the Council corridor. Apprentices bowed deeply as he passed, but he barely saw them — his thoughts still lingered on the midnight conversation with Varin.
The old fool had always been dangerous. A man who believed fire could be reasoned with — that destruction was just misunderstood creation. That kind of thinking had nearly buried the sect once before.
As he approached the Hall of Embers, two guards bowed and opened the door. The air inside was thick with incense and spiritual pressure. A ring of six seats surrounded a hovering flame that never dimmed — the Eternal Core, a manifestation of the sect's ancestral fire.
At its base sat the Sect Master, robed in crimson and white, his long hair bound by a crown of tempered gold. Even with eyes closed, his presence pressed down like the weight of a furnace.
"Elder Solen," came the Sect Master's voice, steady as a blade drawn through smoke. "You requested an early audience."
Solen bowed low. "There are… disturbances among the disciples. And whispers that Elder Varin has resumed his studies of the Cindersworn archives."
At that, a ripple passed through the Council. A few elders exchanged glances, their flames dimming momentarily — an instinctive reaction to that word.
Cindersworn.
The sect's oldest heresy.
"You have proof?" the Sect Master asked.
"Not yet," Solen replied. "But I have reason to believe his 'research' has drawn the attention of an outer disciple. One who has exhibited signs of unstable flame resonance."
The Sect Master's eyelids lifted slightly — twin embers gazing through him. "A disciple?"
"Yes," Solen said. "A boy named Kaelen. His Qi doesn't follow the sect's usual flow. There's something wrong with his spiritual core — something that resists purification. If left unchecked, it could spread."
The Hall grew tense.Unpurified flame meant corruption. Instability. Contagion.
"Then you believe this child carries remnants of the devouring path?" asked Elder Mura, the frail woman seated opposite. Her flame flickered a deep blue, the color of control. "That's impossible. We've purged every record of that art."
"Records can burn," Solen replied quietly. "But memory lingers in the living."
The Sect Master's fingers drummed once on the armrest. The motion was slow, deliberate — a sound like crackling wood. "Watch the boy. Do not confront him yet. If his fire deviates further, bring him to me."
"And Varin?" Solen asked.
The Sect Master's expression didn't shift. "Varin is an old ember. He knows his boundaries. But if he forgets them…" The Eternal Core flared, sending a low hum through the hall. "…we will remind him what purification means."
A faint smile curved Solen's lips. "Understood."
When the meeting adjourned, Solen lingered in the empty hall. He walked up to the Eternal Core and extended a hand toward the hovering flame. It pulsed faintly, sensing his spiritual signature.
"Forgive me, Master," he murmured, "but restraint is a luxury we cannot afford. Fire must be contained, or it consumes."
He closed his eyes, letting his Qi connect with the flame's rhythm.A faint whisper echoed back — not words, but intent. The Eternal Core recognized him. Approved him.
Then, with a subtle shift of his will, he sent a silent command through the sect's inner runic network — invisible threads connecting every division and courtyard.
Within moments, dozens of crimson seals shimmered into existence across the outer grounds, unseen by most disciples. Each seal was a watcher — a burning eye.
And one of them flickered near Kaelen's dormitory.
Far below, as Kaelen stepped out into the morning light, stretching his sore limbs and steadying his breath after a long night of failed meditation, he didn't notice the faint crimson sigil that blinked once on the wall behind him — then vanished.
In the distance, a whisper of wind passed through the training fields, carrying the faintest echo of Solen's voice:
"Let us see what kind of flame you truly are."