The training hall lay deep beneath the city, carved from living stone so ancient it seemed to breathe.
The weight of Trier pressed down from above—tons of masonry, streets, and unaware lives—bearing upon the hall like an invisible hand around the throat. Iron sconces lined the walls, each holding an ordinary torch.
No mysticism.
No enhancements.
Elder Hawick believed a warrior must first master what anyone could wield.
Elaric stood barefoot on the stone.
Cold bit into his soles, crawled up his legs, seeped into bone. He wore only loose linen trousers and a thin shirt already damp with sweat. The chill hurt.
He welcomed it.
Pain sharpened thought.
At the center of the hall waited Elder Hawick.
He no longer wore the white robes of the Sun. Instead, scarred leather armor wrapped his massive frame—armor shaped by battles fought in a land where the sun never rose. In one hand rested a wooden staff as long as a spear, its surface polished smooth by decades of use.
"Today," Hawick rumbled, voice echoing through the stone, "we forge the body that must carry the flame."
He tossed a second staff.
Elaric caught it—
—and nearly dropped it.
Heavy. Balanced deceptively.
"Power without endurance," Hawick continued, stepping forward, "is a spark that dies in the wind."
He planted his feet.
"Defend."
No countdown.
No warning.
—WHOOSH—
Hawick lunged.
The staff cut the air like a striking serpent.
Elaric barely raised his own in time—
—CRACK!—
Wood smashed against wood. Shock slammed up his arms, rattling teeth, numbing fingers. He staggered back.
Another strike.
Another.
Hawick flowed forward, relentless—angles changing, footwork seamless. His staff struck like falling stone, forcing Elaric into clumsy blocks that burned his muscles raw.
Within minutes, Elaric was bruised and panting, lungs aflame.
"You fight like a scholar," Hawick said calmly, not even breathing hard. "Thinking too much."
A low sweep—
—THUD—
Elaric's legs flew out from under him. Stone slammed into his back. The staff clattered away.
Hawick loomed above him, shadow vast.
"Feeling too little."
He extended a hand.
"Stand."
Elaric did. Blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue.
"Again."
Hours blurred together.
Footwork.
Balance.
Strikes.
Parries.
Correction came not with lectures, but pain.
A tap to a rib—opening.
A knock to the knee—weak stance.
A brutal shove—too slow.
When Elaric's arms began to shake uncontrollably, Hawick forced him to hold the staff outstretched.
Seconds crawled.
Tears blurred his vision.
Only then did Hawick call a halt.
They sat on the cold stone, sharing water from a leather flask.
"Your body is weak," Hawick said bluntly. "But it is not broken."
Elaric wiped sweat from his eyes. "I'm not a fighter. I'm just—"
"A vessel," Hawick finished. "Yes."
He placed a calloused hand on Elaric's chest.
"Vessels crack when the fire grows fierce. You must become iron, not glass."
The ember pulsed beneath his palm.
"Hunger," Hawick said. "Demand. It will grow with every sequence. When you reach the higher ranks, refusal will feel like agony. The temptation to burn everything will whisper without end."
His voice softened—only slightly.
"In the City of Silver, we learned survival is not enough. One must choose what kind of survivor to be."
He rose.
"Now," Hawick said, lifting his staff, "we add fire to iron."
The second phase was worse.
Movement fused with flame.
A spark burst mid-step—flash—blinding an imaginary foe.
A precise ignition scorched through bindings.
A controlled ember sealed a simulated wound.
Each spark had a cost.
The ember dimmed.
The hollow ache returned—deeper, sharper.
By the time Hawick ended the session, Elaric swayed on his feet, vision tunneling, heart hammering.
He collapsed—
—and strong arms caught him.
"Well done," Hawick murmured. "You wasted no flame."
He carried Elaric to a side chamber where a small brazier burned—healthy, steady.
"Replenish," Hawick instructed. "Slowly."
Elaric fed the flame with care. The hollow filled—not fully, but enough.
Balance.
Hawick nodded. "This is the forge."
That evening, the Gathering reconvened.
The hall felt heavier.
Temperance's chair remained empty.
Reports littered the table—ash circles, abandoned ritual sites, eyes burned away. No victims.
Practice.
"They're preparing," Leonard said grimly. "They lost their vessel. They need fuel."
"And the churches are moving," Fors added. "Nighthawks, Machinery Union. Temperance made sure of that."
Audrey turned to Elaric. "How soon can you advance?"
His gaze fell to the parchment the Hermit slid forward.
Sequence 8 — Spark Bearer Ritual
Carry a dying ember across a battlefield where hope bleeds out. Preserve nine flames that should have died. Return with the ember brighter than before.
A battlefield.
Leonard spoke quietly. "War tunnels beneath the southern districts. Sealed, forgotten. People still vanish there."
Fors grimaced. "You want the kid to walk into hell?"
"I want him to choose," Leonard replied. "Here—safe, until the walls fall. Or now."
Silence.
Elaric remembered the candle.
The letter.
The pain of letting go.
"I'll do it."
Audrey inhaled sharply.
"I'm done running," Elaric said. "If I'm carrying this fire, I need to be strong now."
Hawick inclined his head. "The boy chooses the forge."
Midnight.
An abandoned warehouse.
A rusted grate.
The moon cast long, skeletal shadows.
They equipped him quickly—boots, reinforced coat, short sword. Fors slipped emergency Door cards into his pocket.
Leonard placed a silver pendant in his hand. A tiny Hanged Man.
"Break it if you must," Leonard said. "I'll know."
Hawick pressed a clay lantern into Elaric's palms. Inside burned a single crimson ember—drawn from Hawick himself.
"Carry it through the dark," he said. "Return with it brighter."
The grate opened.
Cold air surged up from below.
Audrey hugged him. "Come back."
Fors grinned tightly. "Try not to incinerate Trier."
Leonard met his eyes. "Nine flames."
Elaric nodded.
And descended.
—CLANG—
The grate slammed shut.
The tunnels swallowed him whole.
Damp air.
Dripping water.
Echoing screams—real or imagined.
Ember Sense flared—
—dying flames everywhere.
Pain.
Fear.
Madness.
The battlefield awaited.
And deep within his chest, the true ember pulsed—
Hungry.
Eager.
Elaric Voss stepped into the dark.
The ritual had begun.
Far above, behind countless veils and curtains, something ancient leaned closer.
Watching.
Waiting.
To see what kind of fire the forge would create.