The vision haunted him even after they left the Temple of Embers.
Althar—Kael, as he now remembered—had once worn the flame not as a burden, but as a crown. He had ruled not a kingdom, but an age. A forgotten era scorched from the annals of time, where magic had flowed freely and the world itself bowed to a pantheon long turned to ash.
And now, piece by piece, it was returning.
Back at the expedition camp on the edge of the Crystal Wastes, the atmosphere was tense. No one slept deeply. The firelight cast long shadows, and every creak of the wind through crystal spires felt like a whisper.
Seris sat across from Althar, stirring her tea with unnecessary focus. "You haven't said a word since we left the temple."
"I remembered more than just a name," Althar said quietly. "I remembered loss. A war. Something I couldn't stop."
Rorek, seated nearby sharpening his blade, looked up. "You were a king in that life too?"
"No," Althar replied. "I was the king. The final monarch of the Flameborn Empire. The one who made the Pact of Ash."
Seris narrowed her eyes. "What's the Pact of Ash?"
Althar met her gaze. "A spell so powerful it consumed magic itself. It ended the First Age. I made it to stop the gods from devouring the world."
Silence fell.
Even the wind outside had stilled.
"Then why are you back?" Rorek asked, voice low.
Althar looked into the flames. "Because something worse than gods survived it. And it's waking now."
He reached into the satchel at his side and retrieved the second crown—the one they had taken from the temple. It pulsed faintly in his hands, almost like a heartbeat.
"It's not just a relic," he said. "It's a key. There are others."
Seris leaned in. "Others?"
"Seven crowns," Althar said. "One for each domain of the old flame: War, Wisdom, Flesh, Time, Shadow, Light, and Death."
Seris exhaled. "If even one can do what the crown beneath your city did…"
"They were never meant to be worn together," Althar finished. "And yet… someone is gathering them."
Rorek stood. "Then what do we do?"
Althar rose to his feet, his voice firm. "We find them first."
He turned to the group now gathered near the fire—mages, warriors, scholars, loyal to him not just as a king, but now as something far older.
"I won't let the world fall into fire again. Not this time. Not while I have breath."
That night, Althar sat alone at the edge of the camp, the wind lifting his dark hair as he stared out into the wastes.
A soft step behind him signaled Ariya's presence.
She had joined them only two days ago—called by a letter he sent in secret. Her arrival had calmed something inside him, though he wouldn't say it aloud.
"You remembered something important," she said, sitting beside him.
He nodded. "Too much."
Ariya studied him. "Are you afraid?"
"Yes," he said. "Because what's inside me isn't just magic anymore. It's history. Power. Expectation. I don't know how much longer I'll be the man you met in that village."
She touched his hand.
"Then I'll remember for you."
He turned to her, startled.
"If you forget who you are," she said softly, "I'll remind you. Even if you burn the sky."
For a long moment, they said nothing.
But in the stillness of the night, something inside him steadied.
Not because of the crown. Not because of the flame.
But because someone still saw him not as a king, not as a god.
But as him.
Far away, in a cavern bathed in silver frost, a figure cloaked in chains knelt before an altar carved in bone.
Seven pedestals. One crown already resting in place.
A voice, deep and cruel, echoed in the chamber.
"The Flame King remembers."
The chained figure smiled beneath his mask.
"Then let him come. We'll finish what the gods began."