The Shrouded Vale had no sun. It existed in a realm apart—caught between day and night, where shadows clung to even the brightest of flames. Time here did not flow. It unraveled.
Kael had been in the Vale for what felt like weeks, perhaps months. The outside world blurred in memory. The Academy was a distant echo, the god he'd faced a scar on the edge of his mind. Each day he trained, and each night he dreamed. And in both, he bled.
The ancient temple became his sanctuary and his crucible. Its stone walls bore carvings that responded to his presence—runes flared with golden fire when he passed, and murals reshaped themselves to tell new stories. Stories about him.
He had come here hoping for peace. Instead, he found a battlefield.
Lysandra was relentless in her training.
"No hesitation," she snapped, slashing her blade toward his throat. Kael ducked, flame blooming from his hand, but she batted it aside like swatting a fly. "Again."
He gritted his teeth, raising a wall of fire as she lunged. The heat was searing, but Lysandra didn't flinch. She moved through it like water. Her blade met his flame, and magic cracked the air with a deafening hiss. The shockwave flung them both backward.
Kael landed hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Blood trickled from his lip. He didn't bother wiping it away.
"I thought this was a sanctuary," he muttered.
"This is survival," Lysandra replied, stalking toward him. Her eyes held none of the softness they'd once had. In the Vale, she was not a mentor. She was a gauntlet.
"You're holding back," she added coldly. "You fear your power."
Kael looked up at her, eyes glowing faintly. "Wouldn't you?"
Lysandra stared at him in silence. Then she turned away, her voice dropping. "Once. But I burned that fear out long ago."
That night, Kael dreamed again.
He stood atop a mountain of blackened stone, fire roaring below, and the sky above him wept ash. Gods stood before him—tall, radiant, cruel. They held chains woven of stars and light.
One god stepped forward. She had skin like moonlight and hair like flowing mercury. Her voice was calm, kind even.
"We created you to serve," she whispered. "And you betrayed us."
Kael tried to speak, but fire spilled from his mouth. His body was not his own—it burned with divine fury. The gods raised their hands. The chains came for him.
He screamed.
He woke with a gasp, the temple cold and dark. The brazier at the center flickered uncertainly. Kael sat up, hands trembling. His chest ached where the chains had touched him, and he swore he could still hear the god's voice in the silence.
Lysandra sat nearby, staring into the fire. "The dreams again?" she asked, without turning.
Kael didn't answer immediately. He rubbed his face, then looked at her. "You knew this would happen."
She nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, voice low and bitter.
"Because you wouldn't have come."
He laughed, but it was hollow. "You're right."
She finally looked at him. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice softened. "Kael… this place doesn't give answers. It prepares you to find them."
Kael stood, the fire behind him flaring in response to his anger. "I'm tired of riddles. I want the truth."
Lysandra rose as well, facing him squarely. "Then stop looking for it in dreams."
The next morning, Kael ventured deeper into the temple—beyond the hall of flame, into the catacombs. The air grew colder, denser with every step. The walls wept with condensation. Echoes followed him, whispers in forgotten tongues.
He found a chamber at the end of the path—a vault, sealed with runes older than time. At its center was a pedestal, and upon it, a book bound in gold and bone. It pulsed with power.
Kael approached, hand outstretched.
"You shouldn't touch it," a voice said.
He turned. An old man stood in the shadows. Robed in black and silver, eyes glowing faintly.
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
"A watcher. A guardian. A memory," the man said cryptically. "I protect what you seek."
"What is it?"
"The Chronicle of the Fallen Flame. The truth. Your truth."
Kael stepped closer. "I need it."
The man shook his head. "Then prove you're ready."
He raised a hand, and the chamber shifted. The walls melted into mist. Kael was no longer underground.
He stood in a battlefield of fire and lightning. Across from him was himself—but not as he was now.
This Kael was radiant, terrifying. Golden fire flowed from his skin, his eyes were molten suns. He smiled—a cruel, knowing smile—and raised his hand.
The first blast came fast.
Kael barely dodged the arc of flame that tore through the air. The heat scorched his cheek. He retaliated with a wave of magic, but it was swallowed by his double's power.
This wasn't a spar. This was judgment.
"You're not ready," his double taunted. "You fear what you are."
"I'm not like you," Kael growled.
His double laughed, voice like thunder. "No. Not yet."
The battle raged—fire against fire, will against will. Every strike forced Kael to confront pieces of himself he didn't want to see: rage, pain, betrayal, and the part of him that wanted the power. That craved it.
But in the end, he stood tall, his flame steady—not wild, not wrathful.
His double paused. Then, with a smirk, he lowered his hands. "Good."
And vanished.
The chamber returned.
The old man stepped aside. "Take it."
Kael reached out and touched the book.
A searing light flared—and knowledge poured into him like a river breaking a dam.
Visions.
The flame was not just power. It was a god—the first god. A being who had sacrificed its divinity to give mortals the strength to rebel. A being who had fractured itself into vessels, hoping one would carry its will.
Kael was that vessel.
He staggered back, overwhelmed. The book closed itself. The chamber fell silent.
Lysandra was waiting for him at the exit.
"You saw it," she said.
He nodded. "All of it."
Her voice softened. "Then you know what comes next."
Kael looked up, the golden fire now calm in his eyes.
"Yes," he whispered. "War."