The climb was cruel.
Kael's legs burned as he hauled himself over another jagged ridge, fingers scraped raw from gripping volcanic stone. The wind up here wasn't cold — it was hot, dry, laced with the scent of sulfur and scorched iron.
This was Ashspire Plateau — an ancient mesa that pierced the sky, long abandoned by mortals, still haunted by the heat of the gods' war.
And Serenya had led him here on purpose.
"This is where they used to forge dragons," she said, pausing at a narrow ledge. "Where fledglings came to molt their fear and earn their wings."
Kael dragged himself up beside her, panting.
"So… this is a field trip?"
She didn't smile.
"This is a trial. If the flame chose you, then it's time you chose it back."
The summit stretched wide, a plateau of cracked obsidian riddled with glowing runes and the remains of scorched armor. Old bones littered the wind-blasted flats, and somewhere beneath it all, something pulsed — a rhythm, faint and ancient.
Kael stepped forward. The ember in his chest throbbed in reply.
"What do I do?" he asked.
Serenya leaned against a scorched pillar, arms crossed.
"You survive."
The moment she said it, the plateau shifted.
A circle of flame erupted around Kael, cutting him off from Serenya. The heat wasn't normal — it felt alive, testing him. Whispering.
Then the voices came.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Ghostly echoes flickered into view — warriors of flame from ages past, each wielding spectral weapons, each burning with memory.
"He is not ready."
"He is hollow."
"He will break."
Kael gritted his teeth. "I won't."
The flames surged.
A specter charged, a flaming knight wielding a blade longer than Kael's body. Kael dodged the first swing, but the second clipped his shoulder, sending him spinning into the dirt.
The ember in his chest flared violently.
Pain bloomed — but with it, clarity.
The voices hissed.
"Call the fire. Or die."
Kael stood, breathing hard.
And then — he let go.
Fire erupted from within him — not just heat, but form. It coiled around his limbs like armor, shaped itself into gauntlets and greaves, wrapping his body in lines of molten power.
Kael's eyes glowed like twin coals.
When the next specter came, Kael met its blade with a wall of flame, caught the follow-up swing, and drove a fist wreathed in ashen energy into the knight's chest.
The specter exploded into embers.
More came.
Kael fought them all.
One by one.
Until the plateau was a battlefield of fading ghosts, and only Kael remained — shaking, blistered, but standing.
The flame receded, curling back into his chest like a loyal beast.
He fell to his knees, gasping.
Then Serenya stepped through the smoke.
She said nothing for a moment. Just looked at him.
Finally, she spoke.
"You didn't control it."
"You earned it."
Kael looked up, eyes burning softly.
"I didn't think I could."
Serenya offered her hand.
He took it.
"Then start thinking bigger."
That night, they rested beneath the open stars, high above the clouds. Kael's arms ached, but not from pain. From growth.
He sat beside Serenya near a dwindling campfire.
"Was that how you learned?" he asked.
She stared into the flame.
"No. I was born to it. I was forged for war. I didn't have to earn it… but I never really chose it either."
She glanced at him.
"You're different."
Kael watched the emberlight flicker across her silver hair.
"So are you."
In the morning, they descended from Ashspire.
Not as student and teacher.
But as equals.
Kael no longer walked like someone carrying a curse.
He walked like someone carrying a purpose.
And the fire followed.