The heat from the mark on Aaren's chest pulsed with a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat. Withered Flame's voice had been clear earlier that morning: "You've touched my power before, boy. But today, you wield it."
The forest of steel pillars around them hummed faintly, a relic of the Upper Chamber's forgotten wars. A shadow darted between the rusted monoliths, circling them.
"Alright, Aaron," Lenara called, leaning lazily against one of the pillars. "Remember—don't blow yourself up. We're not insured for flaming disasters."
Aaren exhaled, trying to ignore her smirk. "Pretty sure your idea of training is just watching me get beat up."
"Well, someone has to supervise while sipping on imaginary tea." She raised her hand as if holding an invisible cup, pinky extended.
The opponent stepped into view—a tall man in tattered armor, with a crude axe strapped to his back. His movements were heavy, almost sluggish, but his eyes burned with quiet cruelty.
"Name's Craven," the man said, cracking his knuckles. "I keep the newcomers humble."
Aaren's chest symbol flared, and a sudden burst of crimson flames erupted across his arms. The sensation was intoxicating—raw, volatile, alive.
Craven rushed in, swinging his axe in a wide arc. Aaren ducked, the flames trailing behind him like a comet's tail. The clash rang through the steel forest, sparks dancing on the ground.
"You're faster than you look," Craven grunted. "But you burn bright—too bright."
Aaren's grin widened. "And that's the point." He lunged forward, the heat distorting the air between them.
From the sidelines, Lenara cupped her hands around her mouth. "Aaren! Try not to melt his face too much, we might need it for identification!"
That moment of distraction cost him—Craven slammed a boot into Aaren's side, sending him sprawling. The flames sputtered, threatening to die.
But then, a laugh cut through the tension. A short, wiry figure hopped down from a nearby pillar. His hair stuck out in chaotic tufts, and his grin was wide enough to make Lenara raise an eyebrow.
"Wow, you guys really do all the fun stuff without me," he said, cracking his neck. "Name's Koro. I fight for food and good company… oh, and the occasional world-saving gig."
Lenara crossed her arms. "Koro? You look like you'd lose to a stiff breeze."
Koro shrugged. "I'm allergic to breezes." Then, without warning, he blurred forward—faster than Aaren had ever seen—and kicked Craven square in the chest. The armored man flew back into a steel pillar with a ringing clang.
Aaren blinked. "…That was—"
"Lucky shot," Koro interrupted, whistling innocently.
With Craven unconscious, the group regrouped. Lenara's tone softened, though her grin remained. "Alright, kiddos. We've been dancing around, chasing mysteries, bumping into trouble… but I think it's time we had an actual goal."
Aaren nodded, the mark on his chest still faintly glowing. "We can't just wander. The Upper Chamber's rotten in ways we're only starting to see."
Koro tilted his head. "So… what do we call ourselves? The Fantastic Flaming Fools?"
Lenara groaned. "No. Absolutely not."
They stood in silence, each searching for the right word—something that carried weight, yet still felt theirs. Finally, Aaren spoke.
"We'll be the Emberbound. Bound by our fire, bound by our oath… to burn away the rot."
Koro grinned. "Cool. Now, who's buying lunch?"