The morning came gray and still, with no birdsong to greet it. Ash drifted through the air like snow, coating the blackened trees in a ghostly veil. Alaric stood at the edge of the ruins, his pack slung over one shoulder, a short blade at his side, and the Core shard secured in a pouch close to his heart.
Elder Kaelin stood beside him, her staff planted firmly in the ground. Her eyes, lined with both age and grief, never left the horizon.
"The Ember Forge lies three days east, through the Scorched Hollow," she said, her voice low. "It is not a path for the faint-hearted. The land there still remembers fire and pain."
"I remember them too," Alaric said, glancing back at the ruins of his village one last time. "I won't forget."
Kaelin reached into her cloak and withdrew a small, rune-etched stone. "This is a Warding Sigil," she said, pressing it into his palm. "If you find yourself overwhelmed, speak your true name while holding this. It will shield your spirit… once. Use it wisely."
He nodded and tucked it safely into his pouch. His hand brushed against the Core shard again. The warmth pulsed faintly—steady, alive.
Kaelin's voice turned solemn. "At the Forge, you must face the Trial of Flame. It is not just a test of strength, but of will. The fire does not lie—it burns away everything false, until only your truth remains. Many walk in. Few return."
"I'll return," Alaric said. "With the Ashcall Gauntlets. With the flame mastered."
She gave a faint smile, but it did not reach her eyes. "Then go. And may the Aether guide your steps."
Without another word, Alaric turned and began his walk into the east. The land quickly shifted beneath his boots—from broken stone to soft, scorched soil, pocked with the skeletal remains of trees and beasts alike. The world felt hollow, like it had bled too much and forgotten how to heal.
By midday, the smoke grew thicker. The sun faded behind a gray sky. Strange sounds echoed in the distance—low growls, the flutter of unseen wings, the rasping drag of something heavy across stone. Alaric's hand never strayed far from his blade.
As he entered the edge of the Scorched Hollow, the air changed. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the cracked earth, and the Core shard in his pouch began to pulse more quickly—faster, brighter.
He froze.
Up ahead, a shape moved between the trees. A beast, unlike any he had seen before, stepped into the open. Its body was lean and skeletal, but wreathed in flickering black flame. Twin horns curled from its head, and hollow pits glowed where its eyes should be.
"A Cinderwolf…" Alaric whispered. He had heard stories, but to see one with his own eyes…
The creature snarled, and the air around it rippled with heat. Alaric stepped back, hand on his blade.
Then the Core inside him flared.
Not in fear—but in defiance.
The fire in his veins surged, drawn by instinct or fate. His hands ignited—not with wild, chaotic flame, but with focused, living Aether. The Cinderwolf tensed, and in a blur of motion, it lunged.
Alaric reacted without thinking.
He ducked low and slashed with his blade, the ember magic coating its edge. The blade struck the beast's side, searing into it with a hiss. The Cinderwolf yelped and twisted, swiping with flaming claws, but Alaric rolled to the side and raised his hand.
"Burn," he whispered.
A surge of Aether burst from his palm—an untamed arc of fire, raw and brilliant. It struck the creature full in the chest, and it let out a wail as the black flames turned to white and vanished. In moments, only ash remained.
Alaric collapsed to his knees, panting, heart thudding like a war drum. His hands trembled—but from exhaustion, not fear.
The Core shard pulsed slowly now. It was proud.
He had survived.
But more than that—he had fought.
He stood, glancing toward the distant rise where the Ember Forge was said to lie. He could just make out the faint glow of firelight flickering from an ancient structure carved into the mountainside.
"Three days," he muttered. "That's what she said."
He wiped sweat from his brow and started walking again, the ember fire in his blood steady and alive.
The Crucible waited.
But so did his destiny.