The sky cracked open above the Red Grove.
Adel Kael stood among the ashes of a once-sacred forest, his boots blackened with soot, his knuckles split and bleeding. Around him, the burned remains of crimson-leafed trees whispered in the breeze like ghosts. Smoke curled around his shoulders as if trying to claim him. The scent of scorched bark and blood mixed in the air like incense from a dark ritual.
He didn't flinch. The Ember under his skin was burning again.
It had awakened two nights ago—during the ritual duel in Alren's Grand Arena. He'd won, of course. He always did. But the victory meant nothing. Not now. Not with the Mark glowing like wildfire across his chest.
A chosen one. A Sealed Flame.
Adel scoffed, pressing a hand to his ribs. "Fate has terrible taste."
He wasn't supposed to be a hero. He was a thief. A liar. A killer of kings.
But the Flame had chosen him all the same.
He turned toward the blackened altar at the grove's heart. Once, it had been a place of prayer. Now, it was a battlefield. A trail of corpses lay in a broken circle—six warriors who had tried to kill him before he could reach the altar. Not bandits. Not zealots.
Other chosen ones.
Each of them had claimed to bear the Ember. Each had been convinced that he was the imposter.
One of them had even cried before dying. A girl no older than fourteen, with frostbite kisses on her lips and snow for hair. Her flame had been real. Her tears had been real.
So why had his Mark not vanished when she died?
He should not still be burning.
Seven Flames. One must be false.
But now eight burned bright—and no one knew who the traitor was.
Hours passed. Adel buried the bodies with what little strength he had left, dragging their bloodstained forms into shallow pits and covering them with ash. He said no prayers. He was no priest. Just a man trying to do right by the dead, even if they'd tried to kill him.
He remembered one of the warriors whispering in his final breath: "Beware the one who speaks for fire."
Cryptic nonsense. Or maybe a warning.
When he finished, he stood before the altar again. The Ember still pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a golden glow spiraling from his chest to his arms like roots of fire.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the stolen map—one of many things he'd taken from the royal vault in Kaesyr before his escape. The Seal Temple lay northeast, beyond the Blackspire Mountains. That was where the bearers were supposed to gather. Where the ritual would be performed.
And maybe—where the answers waited.
Adel sighed. He hated mountains.
He folded the map and tucked it away, then turned to leave the Red Grove. But before he could take a step, a voice echoed from the trees.
"You fight well for a liar."
Adel froze. His fingers drifted toward the dagger at his belt. He didn't recognize the voice, but he knew the tone: calm, amused, and dangerously close.
"Show yourself," he said.
A figure stepped from the smoke. Tall, robed in pale green, with a staff of whitewood strapped across her back. She had copper hair braided down one side and a circle of flame etched on her brow.
Another bearer.
"Serenya Vale," she said, bowing slightly. "Priestess of the Vireldan Flame. I was sent to find you."
Adel narrowed his eyes. "Why? To kill me, or to test me?"
She smiled sadly. "Neither. I came to see if the Fox Flame was truly real."
"Is that what they're calling me now?"
"Rumors spread fast. A criminal marked by the Ember. Many hoped it was false. A trick."
Adel stepped forward, letting the glow on his palm flare. "Does this look false to you?"
Serenya didn't flinch. She simply studied the light, then nodded. "No. It looks sad."
He blinked. "Sad?"
"You bear it like a curse. Most see the Ember as a gift."
Adel snorted. "Then most are fools."
Silence stretched between them. Then she said, more gently, "Will you come with me? Others are gathering at the ruined city of Tor Varas. We mean to travel together. To reach the Seal Temple as one."
"Strength in numbers?"
"Trust, we hope. It will be harder to discover the traitor alone."
He hesitated.
He didn't trust groups. Didn't trust fate. But the longer he wandered alone, the more likely someone would try to kill him again. And something about Serenya's calm—her certainty—reminded him of the sister he'd lost.
He sheathed his dagger.
"Fine," he said. "But if anyone tries to stab me again, I'm not burying them."
Serenya gave a half-smile. "Noted."
They set off into the dying woods together.
Three days passed as they crossed the Ashplain, a desolate stretch of burned earth and shattered temples. Once, it had been a holy pilgrimage road. Now, it was quiet, save for the wind and the flapping of scavenger crows.
Adel learned little about Serenya in that time. She spoke kindly but guarded her heart like a locked tomb. He found himself watching her as she prayed at old shrines, her hands glowing faintly with rune-light. She carried grief, that much was clear.
But so did he.
One night, under a ruined watchtower, they shared a campfire and silence. Serenya looked up at the stars, her voice almost a whisper.
"Do you ever wonder if the Flame chooses wrong?"
Adel gave a dry laugh. "Every minute of every day."
"My mother died in a firestorm. The priests said it was divine retribution. But I still wonder… why would fire choose to destroy the faithful?"
"Maybe fire doesn't choose. Maybe it just burns."
Their eyes met briefly. No more words were needed.
On the fourth day, they saw smoke on the horizon.
"Tor Varas," Serenya said.
Adel raised a brow. "Looks more like it's still burning."
They reached the city gates by dusk. The walls were broken, and ash covered everything like snow. But inside, in the central plaza, seven figures stood in a wide circle—each marked by the Ember.
One too many.
Adel felt the tension rise in his gut.
A woman in black armor stepped forward, blade in hand. "The Fox arrives," she said. "Now we are eight."
Adel didn't like her tone.
He glanced at Serenya. She gave a small nod.
The test had already begun.
One of them did not belong.
And no one knew who it was.
Introductions followed in terse, uncomfortable waves. Each bearer offered a name and little else. There was Thorne, a silent soldier who barely spoke. Lyra, the snow-haired child whose Ember flickered like winter frost. Mazrek, a giant of a man with eyes that gleamed like coals. Niko, the blind prophet with a smile too serene. Velin, the tactician with soft gloves and cold eyes.
Seven who were supposed to be sacred.
Adel didn't speak of his past, and no one pressed him.
That night, they camped together in the ruins. Fires were lit. Watches were assigned. But no one truly slept.
Adel stayed up with Niko, whose blind gaze flicked toward him.
"You don't trust them," Niko said.
"I don't trust fire. Especially when it speaks through too many mouths."
Niko smiled. "Wise. But dangerous."
Adel leaned closer. "You see things, don't you? Who's the traitor?"
"I see fire. I see shapes. But truth? That hides behind fear. And we all fear something."
A flicker of wind passed. The fire hissed.
Far above them, the stars swirled in cold indifference.
Tomorrow, they would begin the true journey.
And somewhere along the road, one of them would betray the rest.
Adel closed his eyes.
And hoped it wasn't him.