When rot festers in silence, only fire can force it into light.
At the edge of Emberheart's core compound, beyond the Grand Alchemical Pavilion, there lay a forgotten garden.
It had once brimmed with firelotus blossoms—rare spirit plants that bloomed in lava-fed soil. Now only cracked stone troughs remained, filled with ash and quiet. A pond of obsidian water reflected the moon overhead.
It was here that Elder Kaiyuan stood beneath a flame-withered tree, his red robes blending with the gloom.
Elder Lan Cuiren arrived soundlessly, dressed in pale crimson, a color reserved for those in mourning. She did not bow.
Kaiyuan didn't mind.
"She returned," she said softly.
Kaiyuan smiled. "The prodigal frostblade."
"She walks with the Heir now. Again."
"That's good," he said, tracing a symbol in the ash with his cane. "Let them stand together when the blow comes. It will be a cleaner fall."
Cuiren's eyes narrowed. "You plan to strike them both?"
"I plan to strike once. With precision. Shen Li is still tethered to the Mirror Flame. But if we sever that—through isolation, poison, doubt—the Mirror will turn from him."
Cuiren frowned. "And Lan Xueyi?"
"She's not our enemy. Not yet. But if she becomes more than his shadow—then she'll share his fate."
Cuiren said nothing. Her silence was a form of resistance.
Kaiyuan took a long breath, almost regretful. "The sect must survive. Elder Yun taught us that. Shen Li is not his father—and he will never be."
Then he turned and vanished into the trees, his footsteps disturbingly soft for a man carrying so much weight.
In the Flame Mirror Hall, Shen Li knelt alone.
Flamelight flickered over his skin, reflecting in his eyes like coals in a furnace. The Mirror before him pulsed slowly—alive, ancient, watching.
It had been silent all day.
No images. No voices. Only heat.
He closed his eyes, trying to reach into it—not with power, but with faith.
"Speak to me," he murmured. "If there's danger, show me. If I am unworthy, burn me."
Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open. Lan Xueyi entered quietly.
"You always talk to it like it's a god," she said, approaching.
"Sometimes it answers like one."
They stood together before the obsidian surface. No images came—only their blurred reflections.
"I'm sorry I left you to face all this alone," Lan said after a pause. "Frostveil sent me to measure you. Taixu warned me against trusting you."
Shen Li didn't respond.
She continued, more quietly, "I chose to return before they made their decision."
That got his attention.
He turned. "Why?"
Lan hesitated—then met his eyes.
"Because when the fire burns everything else away, I want to be what's left standing with you."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then the Mirror shimmered.
A sudden flicker of image: Elder Kaiyuan's face—twisted, shadowed—whispering to someone unseen.
Then it vanished.
Shen Li's expression turned to stone.
"It begins tonight," he said.
Word arrived by messenger hawk.
Elder Jianxu—one of Elder Yun's last known allies—was dead. No blood. No wounds. No apparent struggle. Just… silence. Lifeless in his quarters, incense still burning.
A spiritual healer inspected the scene.
"He died in sleep," they claimed. "His heart simply stopped."
But Lan Xueyi knew better. She had smelled the faint trace of crushed frostwood root—a rare poison that quieted ki signatures before the soul could cry out.
It was Frostveil's method.
And only someone within Emberheart could have obtained it.
That evening, Shen Li and Lan Xueyi walked the bridge above the Flame Wells—great molten pits used to test spirit-forged weapons. They spoke in whispers, wary of ears.
"There's a shift in the disciple ranks," Lan said. "Some of your supporters were sent to distant patrols this morning. Others have gone silent."
"Kaiyuan's pruning the tree," Shen Li muttered.
"He's trying to isolate you."
"Then he's too late."
She looked at him. "You'll move against him?"
"I'll confront him. I'm still the heir. Let him try to take it from me in the open."
Lan put a hand on his arm. "No. If you confront him, he'll provoke you into revealing your beast side. That's what he wants."
Shen Li stiffened. "Then what?"
"We gather proof. Allies. We turn his own silence against him."
A beat passed.
"And we wait for the Mirror to speak."
That night, three disciples loyal to Elder Yun disappeared.
A message arrived at Shen Li's chambers—no sender, no seal.
It read:
You are not your father. You are his mistake. Step down before the sect tears itself apart again.
Shen Li burned the note in his palm.
Then turned to Lan Xueyi and said, "No more waiting."
The serpent strikes from shadow.
But the flame has found its frost.
And it remembers how to burn cold.