Chapter 4: The Flame That Walks
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The Obsidian Tower pierced the sky like a needle through the heart of the world.
Even from miles away, Reivan could feel it—an oppressive presence pressing against his senses, as if the tower itself breathed. Dark clouds coiled around its peak, unmoving, unnatural. Lightning flickered within, silent and cold.
He had crossed the Silent Valley and the forgotten ruins of Old Fareth, following the echoes of ash in his blood. At night, he dreamed of fire and bone—of a masked figure wrapped in crimson flames, walking unharmed through destruction. A laugh like broken glass always followed.
Each time he awoke, his glyphs burned hotter.
> "Beware the flame that walks."
That warning haunted him now.
At the tower's base, the land was barren. Not burned—but drained. No life. No death. Just stillness, as if time itself had recoiled.
Reivan stood before a broken gate—once a fortress wall, now nothing more than crumbled stone. The moment he stepped through, the air grew heavy. His breath fogged despite no cold. His heartbeat slowed, as if struggling beneath the weight of unseen eyes.
The glyphs on his hand flared red.
Then he heard it.
Bootsteps.
Slow. Steady. Echoing from the stone corridor ahead.
Reivan crouched behind a shattered column, hand glowing faintly. He focused, trying to sense the source. It was moving toward him—no, gliding. Like fire across oil.
The figure appeared moments later.
Tall. Wrapped in crimson robes. A featureless mask, black and polished like obsidian, hid its face. But what struck Reivan most wasn't the robes, or the way the glyphs on its arms pulsed like his own—it was the heat.
This being radiated fire. Not warmth, not destruction—but something ancient. The fire that chooses what to burn. A predator's flame.
Reivan's pulse quickened.
The figure stopped.
Then, it spoke.
"You have the mark," it said. "I smell it on you."
Its voice was hollow, echoing like wind in a tomb. Male, maybe. But more than human.
Reivan stepped out, slowly. "Who are you?"
The masked figure tilted its head.
"I am what you will become if you fail."
Then it raised its hand—and fire ignited around it, black and red, spiraling like a living thing.
Reivan tensed. The ash stirred in his veins, hungry.
"You're one of the Ashborn," Reivan said.
"I was. Long ago. Before I remembered who we truly are."
The glyphs on the figure's arms spread—branching down its neck like veins. "We are not heroes. We are not chosen. We are the embers left behind when the world burns. And you, child, carry the last spark."
Flames ignited at Reivan's feet.
Without warning, the figure attacked.
Reivan barely dodged the first blast—fire screamed past his shoulder and exploded against the wall. He rolled forward, arm outstretched, and let instinct guide him. Ash surged from his palm like a storm. The ground beneath the enemy cracked, molten veins erupting upward—but the figure only laughed.
"You're not ready."
The masked flameweaver dashed forward, impossibly fast. Reivan raised a wall of fire to block the strike—but it shattered like glass. A burning fist slammed into his chest, sending him flying.
He crashed against the far wall, coughing.
"You fight with borrowed power," the figure said. "It will consume you."
Reivan rose, blood dripping from his lip. His chest ached, but his eyes burned with defiance.
"Then I'll burn with it," he growled.
He raised both hands.
The glyphs blazed.
A wave of ash-fire burst from him in every direction. The figure staggered, cloak smoldering, mask cracked slightly.
"You learn quickly…" it whispered. "That is dangerous."
With that, the masked warrior vanished—swallowed by shadow and flame.
Silence returned.
Reivan collapsed to one knee, breathing hard. His hand shook, the glow now dim.
But in the stillness, he understood something.
That figure wasn't a warning. It was a test.
And he had survived it.
For now.
He looked toward the tower, its peak lost in stormclouds.
The real trial still waited above.
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To be continued…