The mountains rose like black knives against a blood-red sky.
Alaric stood at the foot of the Ember Forge, the ancient structure carved into the mountainside like the mouth of a slumbering giant. Pillars of obsidian and flame-ringed stone towered above him, each etched with glowing runes older than language. The air hummed—not with wind, but with power. Aether, raw and undiluted, hung thick in the air, pulsing in slow, deep waves that thrummed against his bones.
At the entrance stood a figure: cloaked, motionless, and faceless behind a mask of red stone carved to resemble a flame. When Alaric stepped forward, the figure raised its hand.
"Name yourself," the voice said, deep and resonant, like the rumble of magma beneath the earth.
Alaric swallowed, steadying his breath. "Alaric of the Ashen Vale."
"You have heard the call of the Crucible. You come to be tested."
"I do."
The figure lowered its hand. "Then leave behind all that you were. Only fire may shape what you must become."
The ground beneath Alaric's feet shifted, and the massive stone doors of the Forge groaned open. A wave of heat poured out—not the destructive blaze of wild fire, but a steady, living warmth that welcomed as much as it warned.
Alaric stepped inside.
The doors sealed behind him with a low, echoing thud.
The Forge was vast—an underground cathedral of fire and stone. Lava ran like rivers through carved channels along the floor, illuminating massive statues of forgotten flame-wielders: warriors, sages, and gods. The walls pulsed with symbols of the Ember Aspect—runes for endurance, for will, for inner flame.
A circular platform stood in the center, surrounded by a ring of fire.
As Alaric approached, the Core shard in his pouch flared to life, and a voice—neither male nor female—echoed in his mind.
"Flame is not only destruction. It is hunger. Passion. Truth. Do you seek truth, Alaric?"
He stepped onto the platform, the heat licking at his boots.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Then let the false be burned away."
The flames around him surged.
In an instant, the world vanished.
He stood in the Ashen Vale again—his home, whole and living. Birds sang. Children played. Smoke drifted lazily from hearths, not ruins.
His mother waved to him from the garden.
"Alaric!" she called. "Come help with the harvest!"
His heart clenched. She'd died three years ago, long before the Voidbinders attacked. He took a step forward.
Then stopped.
This wasn't real.
The Core inside him whispered caution.
He closed his eyes. "You're not her."
The illusion faltered. The sun dimmed. The sky cracked like glass.
The scene shattered.
Now he stood in darkness.
Another figure formed before him—tall, cloaked, with a face identical to his own.
The doppelgänger grinned.
"You think you're ready to carry the fire?" it sneered. "You couldn't even protect your people. You're just a scared boy clutching at cinders."
Alaric's fists clenched. "I did what I could."
"You ran."
"I lived."
"And they burned."
Flames surged around the shade as it rushed him. Alaric raised his hands—too slow. Fire licked across his arm. Pain bloomed, but he held his ground. He pushed back—not just with fire, but with will.
"I didn't ask for this," he growled. "But the Core chose me. So I'll become what it needs me to be. I'll carry the flame."
His Aether ignited—not wild, but focused. From his palms, a lance of flame burst forward, piercing the shadow through the chest. It screamed, twisted—and exploded into cinders.
Silence returned.
The platform beneath him glowed gold. The air cooled.
He was back in the Forge.
At the far end of the chamber, the faceless guardian now stood beside a stone pedestal.
Upon it lay the Ashcall Gauntlets.
Forged from obsidian, rimmed with silver and glowing with ember runes, the Gauntlets pulsed with power. Ancient. Patient. Waiting.
"You have faced your flame and not turned away," the guardian said. "You have earned the right to bear its burden."
Alaric stepped forward.
When he slid his hands into the Gauntlets, they hissed, then locked into place with a deep click. Fire surged through him—not wild this time, but whole. His. His Core pulsed, and for the first time, it felt complete.
The guardian nodded once. "Your journey begins in truth now, Flamebearer."
Alaric turned back toward the sealed doors of the Forge. They rumbled open slowly, revealing the burning horizon of a wounded world.
The Crucible had tested him.
And he had emerged reborn.