The chamber was silent except for the soft, steady hiss of torchlight licking the rough stone walls. Shadows flickered and danced like restless spirits, their glow mingling with the faint scent of burnt herbs and old parchment. Sweat beaded on Alex's brow, cool against the heat rising from his skin as he stood at the center of the circle. His breath came slow and deliberate, steadying himself against the weight of expectation.
Fenrik knelt near the edge of the ring, carefully tracing his fingers along a new set of glyphs freshly etched into the cold floor. These were thicker than the ones Alex had seen before—sharp and precise, their edges dusted with red powder that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. Thin arcs of silver caught the light, weaving through the runes like veins of magic.
Alex's eyes narrowed. The pattern was unfamiliar.
"It's old," Fenrik said quietly, not looking up. His voice held a reverence that made the chamber feel heavier somehow. "Before the wards you know, before even the first glyphs of protection. They used this to shape raw flame... to forge it into weapons. Into truths."
Brinn stood just outside the ring, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed as if trying to bore a hole through the stones themselves. He watched Alex with a mix of skepticism and hope, every muscle tensed like a coiled spring ready to leap. Nearby, Elya crouched beside a softly glowing scroll, her fingers drumming a rhythm as she tapped out calculations in her mind. When she lifted her eyes, they met Alex's for a moment—a look lingering just long enough to unsettle him—before she quickly glanced away, cheeks faintly flushed.
Fenrik rose, dusting chalk from his hands. "You've called fire before. You've controlled it, tamed it, forced it to obey your will. But today, you do something different. You don't command the flame. You let it understand you."
Alex flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar pulse beneath the fabric of his sleeve. The mark on his arm shimmered faintly, alive with latent power.
"Ready?" Fenrik asked.
Alex swallowed and nodded.
He closed his eyes.
Breath in.
Breath out.
The warmth began to stir deep within his chest, coiling like smoke rising from embers. It wasn't frantic or wild—it was calm, patient, like an old friend awakening from sleep. The fire moved, obedient to a rhythm only he could hear, climbing through his shoulders and into his outstretched arm.
He opened his palm.
A flame bloomed there—alive and radiant. It rose slowly, like a flower unfurling toward the sun, gold at its heart melting into violet at the edges. The flame hovered above his skin, weightless, almost fragile.
Fenrik's voice came soft. "Now feel. Don't command. Let it know what you want."
Alex thought of protection. Of the moment Brinn had thrown himself in front of a stray bolt. Of Elya's hand closing around his wrist when he nearly burned himself days ago.
The flame shifted.
It curled, spun slowly into a smooth curve, its edges hardening. Then it broadened, spreading wide and thin, like a shimmering disc—a shield.
Brinn exhaled softly. "Hells. He's really doing it."
Alex moved his hand slightly, and the shield followed—floating with the grace of a leaf caught on a gentle breeze.
Elya's gaze remained fixed on the flame, unblinking and intense, as if trying to decipher a secret language hidden within the flickering light.
"Now change it," Fenrik said. "Not a shield. Think of what you fear."
A jolt of cold passed through Alex. Not just fear—memory. The fire flared, wavered, and surged upward.
He saw again the spiral in the stone. The ash beneath his bed that morning. The dream of wings, eyes of fire, and the voice that called his name.
The flame screamed.
It surged upward, jagged and wild. It lengthened, split apart, then twisted violently. A whip of burning light lashed outward, scorching the air. One of the containment runes cracked beneath his feet with a sharp fracture.
Brinn cursed, hands flying to raise a warding charm just in time.
"Control!" Fenrik shouted, voice sharp as steel.
Alex clenched his fist—and the fire obeyed. It vanished with a sharp hiss, leaving only heat and silence.
His knees hit the cold stone.
Elya was at his side in seconds, her hand hovering just above his trembling arm—not touching, but offering presence.
"You're okay. Just breathe."
He did.
Slowly, the shaking eased.
Fenrik stood opposite them, face unreadable.
---
Later, after the chamber had been cleared and the cracked rune sealed, they sat beneath the old tree behind the east wing.
Brinn tossed pebbles at the base of the roots.
"Well, we lived. Barely."
"Barely's still living," Alex said.
Elya leaned back against the bark, arms crossed over her knees. Her eyes caught the last of the sun.
"You didn't lose control. Not really. You called it back. That's not nothing."
Alex looked at her. The fire had left a faint glow on her cheek, like candlelight brushing across skin. He couldn't tell if the racing in his chest was adrenaline or something else.
She noticed his stare and tilted her head. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—thanks. For not running."
Her smile was small, but real. "You'd chase me if I did."
He blinked. "Would I?"
"Yes," she said. Then stood. "Come on, flame boy. Time for dinner."
Brinn laughed all the way back to the hall.
---
That night, Alex sat by his window, the dragon scale in his hand.
It pulsed faintly.
Like a heart.
Like breath.
He remembered the whip of fire. The shield. The moment it almost became something else—something with eyes.
Outside, the stars turned.
Inside, the flame listened.
And waited.