The first week passed like a blur of sermons and silence.
Every morning, the bells tolled before dawn, summoning the students to prayer. Kael stood among them, his lips moving but his heart absent. The chapel ceiling loomed high above — painted with saints and suns, their golden eyes watching. Beneath those painted heavens, faith was no choice. It was survival.
After prayers came lessons. The sciences of the Empire were not taught as truths, but as proofs of divinity. Every formula, every natural law, every discovery — all were said to reveal the hand of Aurelion. Questioning that link was the first sin most never repeated.
Kael learned quickly to listen more than speak.
He studied the diagrams of the human soul — drawn like clockwork engines, powered by divine flame. He memorized the names of the Seven Luminaries, the saints who had "purged the world of shadow." But beneath every polished word, he could feel something wrong. Fire was not purity. Fire was hunger.
And his never slept.
Sometimes during lectures, he'd feel it stir — a flicker beneath his ribs, a whisper in his blood. It came strongest when the Instructors spoke of sin, or when the Eternal Flame burned too close. Then he'd clench his fists and force himself still until it passed.
But Liran noticed.
"You twitch like you're haunted," he murmured one day as they left the alchemical wing. The boy's tone was teasing, but his eyes weren't. "What's wrong with you?"
Kael adjusted his collar. "Bad dreams."
"Dreams don't burn holes through linen." Liran's gaze dropped pointedly to where the fabric over Kael's chest was faintly singed. "Careful, Verrin. The wrong eyes might see more than you want them to."
Kael didn't answer. He couldn't.
That night, the dreams came again.
He stood in the ruins of the chapel where they'd found him — only now it wasn't silent. The stained glass burned, colors melting into rivers of molten gold. Shadows moved beyond the flames, their shapes whispering names he didn't remember. And at the center of it all stood a figure of light, faceless and tall.
Do you know what you are? it asked.
Kael woke choking on smoke that wasn't there. The mark over his heart burned like iron. He bit down on his sleeve to keep from screaming.
When dawn came, he went to the courtyard early, before the others. The Eternal Flame flickered alone, small against the gray sky. He stared at it for a long time, wondering if it could feel him watching.
Then a voice broke the stillness.
"Some say the Flame judges intent. Others say it only mirrors what you bring to it."
Kael turned. A woman stood beside him — older, her robes marked not with gold but deep crimson. Her eyes were sharp, the color of cooled ash.
"Inquisitor," he breathed.
"Not today," she said quietly. "Today, I'm only a teacher."
Her gaze lingered on him — too long, too knowing. "Kael Verrin. You've drawn attention faster than most. That's rarely a good thing."
"I didn't ask for attention," he said.
"No one does. But the fire doesn't care what we ask."
She looked toward the Eternal Flame, and for a moment, Kael could swear it dimmed. "You should learn what it truly is before it learns you."
Then she was gone — a rustle of robes and silence.
Kael stood alone in the courtyard, heart pounding. The mark beneath his shirt was warm again, pulsing in time with the flame.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath thought and fear, he heard the faintest echo of that same voice from his dreams —
a whisper like wind through burning glass:
"You cannot hid forever ".