The moment Kael emerged from the underchambers of the Citadel, he knew the world had tilted again.
Not in fire.
Not in silence.
But in possibility.
The crimson thread of flame now curled around his aura like a living snake—always just at the edge of his vision, whispering not commands, but questions.
What will you do with me?
What are you willing to burn?
...
The Citadel was quiet.
Too quiet.
It wasn't just the weight of Nullborn incursions or the aftershocks of Operation Hollow Sun. Something had shifted in the Flamecourt itself. Conversations stopped when Kael passed. Eyes lingered not with awe, but calculation.
And he understood.
He was no longer just a symbol.
He was a threat to every hierarchy the Citadel had preserved since the Flame Wars.
The Ashen Mark now bore three colors.
That had never happened before.
Even Saelin kept his distance that first day, offering a curt nod but nothing more.
It was Iria who broke the silence.
"You're starting to scare them," she said softly, handing Kael a canteen as they sat on the edge of the Dawn Spire that evening, watching the fractured sky pulse dimly with Nullborn energy.
Kael took the drink and sipped. "That was always going to happen."
"Maybe. But they don't understand what crimson means. Do you?"
Kael glanced at his hand. The red hue there flickered and twisted when he focused on it—almost playful, but with an undercurrent of fury.
"No," he admitted. "It doesn't speak in words like the others. It feels like…"
"Like a question?"
Kael met her eyes.
"Yes."
Iria leaned back, stretching.
"Saelin said something strange this morning. He thinks the crimson flame is linked to a concept not seen since the time before the Flame Wars."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "What concept?"
Her voice dropped, almost reverently.
"Divinity."
...
Later that week, during a Flamecourt session closed to all but the top echelon, Kael was summoned again—this time by order of the Elder of Embers himself.
He entered the central hall with Iria at his side.
The chamber's high pillars, each carved with the name of a fallen Flamebearer, flickered with unnatural shadows.
Master Terev stood at the far end, arms crossed.
Saelin stood off to the side, his expression unreadable.
And in the center of the chamber floated a shard of the Veil—the one extracted from beneath the Citadel during Operation Hollow Sun.
It shimmered with impossible geometry. Looking at it hurt.
"We have questions," said the Elder, his voice sharp. "About what you did down there."
"I sealed the rift."
"Without glyphs. Without runes. Without a team," Terev hissed. "Do you understand what kind of flame manipulation that would normally require? Twelve Archanists died attempting a lesser seal two years ago!"
Kael said nothing.
"I don't think he used flame at all," Saelin murmured. "I think he used memory."
Terev rounded on him. "What are you saying?"
"That the Ashen Mark is no longer a channel," Saelin replied. "It's a lens. Kael doesn't just burn. He remembers. And through him, so does the world."
Kael clenched his fists.
"You want to know what I saw? I saw a city erased from time. I saw a sun that laughed as it devoured its own light. I saw Chrona, and it saw me back."
The room went still.
The Elder sat back in his stone chair.
"Then you've confirmed our fears."
"What fears?"
"That the Nullborn are no longer invading from beyond. They are awakening from within."
...
Days later, a message arrived from the ruins of Glowreach.
A flamebearer outpost had gone silent.
Two squads were dispatched. Neither returned.
Kael was given no orders.
Just a location.
A tacit acknowledgment: We need you. We won't say it. But we need you.
He left that night, Iria beside him, joined by two others:
Tovan Grey: A stoic Flameguard with obsidian armor and flame constructs shaped like animals.
Ysil Thorne: Kael's cousin, once thought dead. Returned recently from beyond the Reach with a flame affinity tainted by time.
Their journey took three days through shifting terrain. The closer they came to Glowreach, the more surreal the land became.
Trees whispered fragments of conversations they'd never had.
Their reflections in rivers did not match their actions.
And the stars above twisted into runes Kael had only seen in dreams.
"It's the Veil," Ysil said softly. "It's not breaking. It's bleeding into us."
...
Glowreach was gone.
In its place stood a forest of frozen flame. Towers of congealed fire, suspended in time, flickering but unmoving.
And at the center:
A figure.
She stood barefoot, surrounded by threads of soulflame drawn from corpses frozen mid-step.
A Nullborn.
But different.
She turned.
And Kael gasped.
Because she had his mother's face.
...
The fight was immediate and brutal.
Tovan unleashed beasts of shadowflame—tigers and wolves that lunged for the Nullborn, only to be turned mid-air and forced to attack him instead.
Ysil burned her own memories, channeling a risky technique known as Temporal Echo, striking in patterns that hadn't happened yet.
Kael stepped forward, and the Nullborn's eyes locked onto his Mark.
"You are remembered," she whispered.
And then—
—she ignited in blue-white flame, the color of forgotten prayers.
She wasn't just a Nullborn.
She was a Memory Construct, an echo of Kael's own trauma, shaped by Chrona into a weapon.
The battle blurred. Fire met silence. Time fractured.
And Kael chose.
He didn't burn her.
He didn't erase her.
He remembered her.
He called her name. "Lyra Thorne."
And she froze.
The crimson flame pulsed from his chest.
"Who were you?" he whispered.
She trembled.
And vanished.
Not destroyed.
But released.
...
They returned to the Citadel in silence.
Kael spent hours alone in the Memory Pool, tracing echoes of Lyra's final thoughts.
She had been a bearer.
She had chosen silence to protect him.
And Chrona had stolen even that.
Iria found him that night.
"You saved her," she said.
"I failed her," Kael replied.
"No," she said. "You freed her."
Kael turned.
And kissed her.
No prophecy. No destiny.
Just two people trying not to fall apart.
...
In the highest chamber of the Veilguard, Saelin met with the Elder in secret.
"He's awakening it," the Elder whispered. "The Third Flame."
Saelin nodded.
"Choice."
The Elder placed a palm over the old sigil of the Citadel.
"Then we may need to choose, too."
Saelin looked down at the map of the world.
And saw the other marks flaring.
Chrona wasn't just watching.
It was coming.