By morning, the forest gave way to jagged hills cloaked in mist and silence. The land was unnaturally still—no birdsong, no wind, only the distant crackle of flame beneath the surface of the earth.
Kael, Serenya, and Selira stood at the base of a narrow ravine flanked by black stone pillars, each carved with flame-touched runes.
Serenya ran her fingers across one. "Old tongue," she murmured. "These aren't just markers. They're warnings."
Kael crouched beside the path and placed his palm on the stone. A faint warmth pulsed beneath it. "We're close. The Bastion is near."
Selira unsheathed one dagger and scanned the terrain. "If it's still protected by ancient wards, we'll need more than fire to get inside."
They walked deeper into the ravine. The walls seemed to pulse with memory. As the trio moved forward, the air thickened—like pushing through invisible heat.
Then they saw it.
A massive stone gate, half-sunken into the cliff face, loomed before them. It was covered in rusted chains, runes, and scorch marks that hadn't faded in centuries. Above it, a broken crest: a crown with three flames—one white, one gold, one black.
The Flameheart Bastion.
"It's real," Serenya whispered.
As they approached, the chains snapped taut, glowing red. The air ignited with invisible fire. The very air rippled with ancient wards.
"Hold!" Kael called, drawing his sword. "It's testing us."
A voice echoed—deep, ancient, and layered with flame:
"Only the Flamebound may enter.
Prove your bond.
Or burn."
Without waiting, the flames surged toward them, wrapping the trio in searing light.
Serenya cried out, shielding her face. But the flame did not burn her.
Instead, it recognized her.
Her mark—now fully awakened—flared like a beacon. Behind her, Kael's blade glowed with golden heat, and Selira's daggers burned with black fire.
Together, the three stood unmoved within the storm.
The fire recoiled.
Then, with a deafening clang, the chains shattered.
The gate rumbled open, revealing a vast staircase that descended into the mountain—lit by torches that ignited one by one with blue flame.
They entered.
—
Inside, the Bastion was untouched by time.
Statues of old flameborn lined the halls, their stone faces noble and somber. Great murals depicted the forging of the Flameheart—a relic of impossible power, said to burn away lies and awaken the true blood of flame.
As they reached the central chamber, a pool of molten silver flickered in the floor, casting reflections of all three heirs—not as they were, but as they could be: crowned, cloaked in fire, united.
Serenya stared. "It's showing us... the future?"
"No," Selira said quietly. "It's showing us what must happen."
A pedestal rose from the floor. Upon it sat a crystal casket—and inside it, suspended in golden flame, rested a sword unlike any they had ever seen.
The Flameheart.
Kael stepped forward.
But as his hand reached toward the blade, the room shuddered.
From the shadows above, something moved—massive, coiled, ancient.
A voice, older than the throne, echoed from the darkness:
"You are not yet worthy.
Only flame tempered by loss may wield the heart.
Choose who falls.
Or all shall fail."
The chamber began to close around them, the flames in the walls roaring to life. The relic would not be taken easily.
Selira raised her daggers. "A trial. Of blood."
Kael turned to Serenya, jaw clenched. "Get ready. This was never going to be simple."
Serenya's flame sparked at her fingertips as she whispered:
"Then let it begin."