"The only truth deeper than blood is the one we choose to remember."
– Saying of the Ashmarked
The path beneath Seravelle descended deeper than Kaelen had imagined.
Cold stone pressed in from all sides, absorbing the flicker of light Elaine conjured in her palm. The silence was absolute—too absolute. Every footstep echoed like a heartbeat in the dark.
"Why isn't this on any map?" Elaine whispered behind him, her voice like a thread unraveling in the air.
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. His eyes were drawn to the walls—etched with symbols that emerged from the stone like old wounds. A chained crescent. Eyes crying flames. And there: the shattered emblem of the First Crown.
"Because it had to be forgotten," he said at last. "Because something is buried here... something the world isn't meant to see."
At the corridor's end stood a door—blackened iron sunk into an altar of obsidian. No lock. No handle. Just an emblem: a flame, imprisoned in a circle of silence.
Kaelen stepped forward.
"Wait—" Elaine began, but too late. His hand pressed against the flame.
The door opened without a sound.
Behind it: a vast chamber, hollowed beneath the earth like a cathedral of memory. Torches burst into light along the walls, revealing seven robed figures—faces obscured by silver masks.
Kaelen stepped inside. The air shifted, thick with expectation.
The tallest figure approached. A woman. Her mask was etched with a single flame.
"You heard the call," she said. "The Circle of Flame has recognized you."
Kaelen met her gaze, his voice steady. "Who are you?"
"We are the Ashmarked. Keepers of the Silent Flame. Guardians of what should never have been erased."
Another voice, older, gravel-rough:
"We watched the first fire die when the Crown betrayed itself. When bloodlines were sealed. When the name of the rightful heir was burned from history."
Elaine stepped closer, eyes narrowed. "You know who he is."
"No," the woman replied. "But we know who he *might become*."
She tossed a medallion to the ground. It struck the stone—and burst into a glowing symbol: the flame Kaelen had seen in his dreams.
"The prophecy has stirred," she said. "And you, son of the storm, carry the spark."
Kaelen's breath caught. "Why me?"
"Because you were not born to rule—but to choose *what deserves to rule*."
An elder stepped forward, holding a scroll wrapped in midnight-colored string.
Kaelen took it.
The parchment shimmered in his hands—runic symbols slithering across its surface like living fire. Words that breathed. Language not meant for the world above.
"That's not any known script," Elaine murmured.
"It's written in Flameblood," the elder said. "Only one with the true mark can read it."
And Kaelen felt something stir inside. Older than pain. Deeper than fury. A name he had never known. A choice that wasn't his—but would soon be.
The Ashmarked knelt as one.
"If you speak the flame," the masked woman said, "the silence will burn. But know this: not every fire warms. Some... consume."
Kaelen looked down at the scroll.
And the mark on his forearm began to glow.