The moonflower tree had become Kael's sanctuary.
By day, the world looked at him and saw a quiet child—a Bearer with his head in the clouds. By night, beneath the drooping white blossoms, he was something else entirely: a researcher, a builder, a thief of forbidden knowledge.
Tonight, he was chasing fire.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
A spiral of chalk symbols marked the ground around him—each one drawn by hand from memory. Five lines of script encircled a tiny mound of dried grass. Over it, Kael held his hand, trembling from the effort.
"Channel the breath inward," he whispered, recalling the Flame Talent's chant from three weeks ago. "Focus through the center palm. Visualize ignition…"
He exhaled slowly. The air shimmered—only slightly, barely perceptible.
Nothing burned.
Kael didn't curse. He didn't even sigh. He just sat back on his heels and opened his notebook.
> Attempt 6: Pattern ϕ3 (Modified Flame Spiral).
> Result: No Essence response. Possibly incorrect angle in ignition sweep. Recheck hand sigil alignment.
> Note: Internal core temperature did rise by 0.4°C. Trace activation? Repeat tomorrow.
He closed the book. Blew out his candle. Darkness fell like a curtain.
---
Back in the village, laughter echoed from the central firepit. A celebration—small, provincial, and utterly uninteresting. But it wasn't the event that drew Kael's attention. It was the boy in the center of it.
Tarran.
The only child in the village born with a Pattern in the last five years.
At seven, Tarran could call heat into his skin. Sparks into his eyes. The Resonance Stone had flared like a dying star the moment he touched it.
Now, he wore the smugness of a crowned prince, even in dirt-covered boots.
"Come on, show us again!" someone shouted.
Tarran grinned. He held out his palm.
With no effort, no chant, flames danced across his skin, curling upward like loyal pets. The children clapped. The adults offered approving nods.
And Kael—hidden in the shadows—watched quietly.
Not in envy.
In calculation.
---
The next day, Kael approached the hill beyond the village, where the air turned dry and the winds carried traces of metal from the mines. He came not for the view, but for solitude—and friction.
He didn't expect company.
"Trying again, Learner?"
Tarran stood at the ridge, arms folded. His golden tunic fluttered in the breeze, faintly embroidered with the sigil of House Haldeir, a minor noble family that had claimed him the moment his Pattern lit the stone.
Kael didn't reply.
Tarran stepped closer, kicking dust over one of Kael's chalk sigils.
"You know it's pointless, right?" he said. "You're not meant to hold fire. Not even a spark. Learners don't ignite—they imitate."
Kael's fingers didn't tighten. His breathing stayed steady. He simply looked up and said, "Fire doesn't ask who made it. It just burns."
Tarran sneered. "That's the kind of thing you say before your hands explode."
Kael looked back down at the disturbed sigil. He re-drew it, more carefully this time. His voice was quiet.
"You were given a Pattern. You use it. But do you even know how it works?"
Tarran frowned. "Why would I need to? The gods already did the thinking for me."
Kael almost smiled.
Exactly.
---
That night, Kael failed again.
And again.
The sigil burned wrong. The chant reverberated but fell flat. His fingers ached, Essence eluded him, and the grass refused to light.
He returned home after midnight, fingernails caked in chalk, smoke stains on his sleeves. Maela didn't ask where he'd been. She only set down a bowl of warm lentils and kissed his forehead.
"Still building?" she asked softly.
Kael looked up, eyes steady.
"I'll build something even the gods will be afraid of."
---
Three months later, during a windless dusk, Kael stood beneath the moonflower tree again. Older. Smarter. Tireder.
He pressed his hand over the newest Weave—a modified double spiral drawn in concentric arcs, with stabilizing runes borrowed from stone-binding rituals.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
Focused.
Click.
The air shifted.
A tiny flicker of heat brushed against his palm. A shimmer of light bloomed—barely the size of a fingernail—hovering for less than a second before vanishing into smoke.
Kael opened his eyes.
He stared.
No one saw it.
But he smiled.
Proof of ignition. Manual activation. Non-Pattern resonance.
It worked.