I didn't sleep that night.
Even after I left the chamber, after the burning crown faded, the memory of it stayed with me. It etched itself behind my eyes, replaying every time I blinked. The voice—whoever he was—had spoken to me through the book. Through fire.
And he knew who I was.
By morning, I was back in Hollowhearth.
The Circle insisted I return for the day. "If we act too quickly, people will notice," Sabine warned. "Let the flames simmer before they burn."
So, I sat through Elemental Geometry, pretending I cared how many flame vectors fit into a spiral pattern. I stirred my lunch with a fork while the dining hall buzzed with laughter. I tried to feel normal.
But Hollowhearth didn't feel like home anymore.
It felt like a mask I was wearing.
I waited until the sun dipped low before sneaking into the Hollowhearth archives. Beneath the school, through a rusted gate, lay a forgotten section. One few students even knew existed.
The Hollowheart.
It was said to be where the founders lit the first flame that made this school burn bright. I remembered the story. Every first-year did. But I had a reason to look deeper now.
The symbol from the mural—the one worn by the Masked One—was carved here. Not once. Not twice.
Dozens of times.
I ran my fingers along the pattern. A looping spiral of flame, intersected by a horizontal line. It wasn't just decorative. It was part of a warding circle. Old magic.
Then something in the air shifted.
Crkkk...
A loose brick. A hidden chamber. Just like in the archives.
I pushed. The wall gave way.
Inside, I found a staircase lit by dormant sconces. And when I touched one, it flared to life—not gold, not red, but blue.
Cold fire.
The stairwell led to a room beneath the school. A crypt, maybe. At its center sat an altar, cracked and scorched. Around it were fragments—scraps of armor, melted candle stubs, and something else.
A journal.
Its leather binding had nearly disintegrated, but the name carved into the cover was still legible.
Vaerin Flameborne.
I flipped it open.
"The seal weakens. I feel him watching me even now, through the coals. The Emberborn have scattered, the Circle is broken, and Hollowhearth has forgotten its name. But if the ring is found—if a bearer awakens—it begins again."
"He must not rise."
"Not again."
My breath caught.
I sat down hard on the floor.
Vaerin Flameborne. That was the name on the first page of the Chronicles of the Hidden Emberborn. He wasn't just a chronicler.
He was the last to face the Echo.
And he failed.
I left that chamber with the journal hidden in my satchel and the blue flame burning in my veins.
The Circle needed to know what I'd found.
But first, I had to tell them something I wasn't ready to admit until now.
That this wasn't just about the past.
The fire was rising again.
And it was starting with me.