The wind had changed.
Kael felt it the moment he stepped out of Velcrath's Hollow. Though the snow still fell and the sky remained slate gray, there was something different now. Something heavier. Not in the world—but in him.
He looked at his hand. Flames flickered beneath the skin, dancing just below the surface, as if his blood had turned to ember.
"It's inside me now," he whispered.
Elira nodded.
"That was the first shard. There are eight more."
Kael turned to her, jaw clenched.
"Then we find them. Before the Temple does."
But Elira didn't reply. She was staring at the ridge above the valley—where a figure stood, cloaked in silver.
Kael instinctively reached for his flame.
"Seeker?"
"No," Elira said grimly. "Worse. A Herald."
The figure descended slowly, as if gliding rather than walking. His cloak shimmered like starlight, and a helm of white bone covered his face. Around him, the snow melted in perfect circles, leaving the ground untouched by winter.
Kael felt pressure build in his chest—not fear, exactly, but… gravity.
This man radiated authority.
When he finally stopped a few paces away, his voice rang out like distant thunder:
"Flameborn Kael. You walk in fire not meant for mortal feet."
Kael stepped forward.
"I walk where your Temple once burned my people alive. I carry what was mine before your chains."
The Herald tilted his head slightly.
"Ardarion was a rebellion. A blasphemy. You carry a mistake."
Kael raised his hand.
"Then I'll make that mistake again."
The Herald didn't flinch.
"I did not come to kill you. Not yet. The High Temple has… questions."
Elira scoffed.
"Questions? Or threats wrapped in scripture?"
The Herald's gaze flicked to her.
"Child of the Black Flame, you've already been judged. This is not your moment."
Kael stepped between them.
"Say what you came to say, then leave. I owe your kind nothing."
The Herald's voice grew colder.
"Then listen well, last son of Ardarion: the Temple remembers. We remember the Nine Cities burned by your king. The scholars flayed for knowledge they were not meant to hold. The gods themselves wept as your fire scorched the heavens."
He paused.
"But we are merciful. Surrender the Codex. Come to the Temple. Bend the flame. And you will live."
Kael's answer was immediate:
"I'd rather burn the sky again."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, for the first time, the Herald moved—not to attack, but to bow.
Not in respect. In warning.
"Then remember this moment. For mercy will not return."
In a blink, the Herald vanished—no smoke, no sound. Only scorched snow in a perfect circle where he had stood.
Elira let out a breath she'd been holding.
"A Herald doesn't come unless they're preparing a war."
Kael clenched his fists.
"Then let them come."
"We're not ready. You're not ready."
He turned to her, fire burning behind his eyes.
"Then teach me what your mother knew. The old rites. The forbidden tongues. The true fire."
She hesitated.
"If we go down that path… there's no turning back. The Temple doesn't just kill rebels. They erase them. Mind. Name. Soul."
Kael's voice was quiet, but resolute:
"Let them try."
That night, they camped near a frozen stream in a cave long abandoned. Kael sat by a small controlled flame, reading from the Codex as Elira traced runes in the snow.
She was teaching him Bloodfire—a forgotten dialect that shaped flame with intent, not voice.
"Every flame is a question," she said. "The word you speak is the answer. But it must be truth."
Kael repeated the glyph: "Nhar'veth."
The fire flared upward, then dimmed.
"Wrong intent," Elira said. "You tried to command it. That word means 'protect,' not 'obey.'"
Kael frowned.
"Then how do I say 'burn'?"
She looked at him for a long moment.
"You don't. Fire always knows when to burn. You ask it why—not how."
Later that night, Kael had a dream.
He stood at the base of a mountain of ash. At the peak burned a sword of pure flame, suspended in air. Around him, thousands of voices whispered his name, but none were human.
He climbed.
Step by step, the ash burned his feet, tore at his lungs. But he didn't stop.
When he reached the summit, a voice greeted him:
"The First Flame waits. But will you carry it… or be consumed by it?"
Kael reached for the sword—
And awoke in fire.
Elira rushed to him, casting glyphs to suppress the flames that had erupted around his body in his sleep. His skin shimmered with golden heat. The Codex floated mid-air, pages flipping wildly.
Kael gasped, then sat upright.
"I saw it."
"What?"
"The sword. The First Flame."
Elira went still.
"That's a myth. A legend even I wasn't sure was real."
Kael stood slowly.
"It's not. It's calling."
She looked at him as if seeing something change—something permanent.
"Then we'll follow the flame."