The battlefield outside the Vault roared with chaos. Flame clashed with void, steel rang against steel, and screams echoed through the crumbling streets of Iralith. But within the obsidian dome, there was only silence—heavy, sacred, and unbroken for centuries.
Ember stood at the threshold, her companions behind her, the Shadeborn Monk at her side. Together, they stepped into the Vault.
The doors sealed shut.
Inside, the air was thick with ancient magic. The walls pulsed with a dim orange glow, veins of dormant fire magic crisscrossing the structure like capillaries in a sleeping beast. At the center stood a pedestal—and upon it, the Phoenix Heart, suspended in air, encased in crystalline flame.
Ember moved closer.
Then, the Vault came alive.
From the walls, ethereal forms emerged—figures shaped by smoke and memory. Flameborn of the past. Some were crowned in glory, others cloaked in sorrow. Their eyes glowed with fire, and they spoke in unison.
"You who seek the Heart—prove that you are worthy of the Flame."
The ground trembled, and Ember was pulled into a vision.
---
She stood alone on a battlefield—not one of the present, but a memory, or perhaps a warning. Around her, innocents screamed as entire cities burned. Her own flames spiraled out of control, consuming everything. Her hands were stained with ash. Power without restraint. Flame without purpose.
The vision shifted.
Now she stood before a child, the same flame in her eyes. Ember recognized her—it was her, younger, afraid, full of promise and fear. The child asked her one question.
"If you could burn the world to save it… would you?"
The air stilled. The Phoenix Heart pulsed.
Ember closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and answered.
"No. I would carry the flame—not unleash it. I am not here to rule, or destroy. I am here to heal."
The vision shattered like glass.
---
Back in the Vault, Ember stood before the Phoenix Heart, now glowing brilliantly.
The ghosts of Flameborn past bowed their heads.
The Shadeborn Monk watched in silence.
The crystal floated to Ember's hands, warm and light.
As she touched it, the Flame surged through her—not wild, but in harmony. Fire danced at her fingertips, wrapping her in a mantle of glowing embers. She had passed the Trial.
Kaelen whispered, "You did it."
But Lysra, staring at the sealed exit, said, "Then why hasn't it ended?"
The walls cracked. A new presence stirred.
From the shadows behind the pedestal, something ancient and corrupted rose—a twisted remnant of the first Flameborn, consumed long ago by their own unchecked power.
Not everyone who faced the Trial survived it.
And now, Ember must face the one who failed.