Caldrith Vale rose like a torch carved from stone and fire.
Built into a mountainside of obsidian cliffs, the city's towers twisted upward like molten spires. Walkways bridged sky and smoke, and steam hissed from vents along the streets. Here, the fire wasn't feared—it was channelled. Lanterns of flickering crystal hung at every archway. Lava ran in contained rivers beneath translucent stone bridges.
The Vale was ancient—and alive.
Elyra led them through a hidden passage at dawn. "This city is one of the last places not wholly bent to the Ashen Lords. But their influence grows."
Kareth pulled his hood lower. "So do the eyes watching us."
⸻
At the heart of the city stood The Pyrepalace, a great dome where flames flowed from a central column into a controlled maelstrom. It served as both parliament and prison, depending on the season.
There, Irisen was introduced to Maerel Duskflame, a young flamewright and secret rebel.
"I know what you are," she whispered in the shadow of a glass stairwell. "And if we don't move fast, the Ashen Lords will take this city by the throat."
"How?" Irisen asked.
"They've infiltrated the Ember Guard," Maerel said, eyes glinting. "Tomorrow, they'll detonate the Forge Spire and blame it on the Kindled Vow. That gives them all the excuse they need to 'cleanse' the Vale."
Irisen's gut twisted. "How many will die?"
"Thousands."
⸻
Back at their temporary quarters—a hollowed-out forge beneath the city's oldest tower—Irisen paced.
Kareth leaned against the wall. "You want to stop this."
"I have to," Irisen said. "But we don't have the proof. If we expose the rebels before the Ashen Lords strike, we lose their trust. If we wait too long, people die."
Elyra looked at the white feather Irisen had tied to his belt. "You already made your choice in Scorchtongue Gulch. The question is how far you're willing to carry it."
⸻
That night, Irisen stood atop the forge roof, watching the flickering skyline.
Maerel joined him, face set with fire. "I know where they're hiding the ignition runes. But I can't go alone."
"I'll come with you."
She blinked. "Why?"
He looked toward the Forge Spire, where the future cracked and curled like burning parchment. "Because I still believe we can win without becoming them."
⸻
They descended into the maintenance tunnels beneath the Spire.
Steam roared in the distance. Pipes hissed. The air was hot enough to scald.
Irisen and Maerel found the rune arrays carved into the steel core. Emberstones the size of fists thrummed with unstable energy.
They worked quickly.
Too quickly.
A voice echoed from behind them.
"You should've stayed out of the fire."
Veylan.
Flanked by masked enforcers in blackened armour, he stepped forward, eyes burning colder than before.
"I warned you, Irisen. Mercy is weakness."
⸻
Battle erupted.
Maeral unleashed a wave of fire glass daggers, buying Irisen time to reach the runes. Veylan struck with blue fire—his twin whips cracking, cutting into the metal walls.
Irisen deflected with his Brand, the weapon now responding like a living thing—channelling his will into wide arcs of protective flame.
But Veylan was faster.
He lashed Maerel across the back, sending her crashing to the ground.
"You can stop me," he sneered. "But if you do, the energy will destabilize. This whole chamber goes up. You'll save the city—but you'll burn with it."
⸻
Irisen looked at Maerel. She was unconscious, bleeding. The runes hummed dangerously close to detonation.
And Veylan… was right.
It was one life for thousands.
He could end it here.
Or…
He turned the Brand in his hand, focusing on the feather tied to its hilt. Its warmth guided him—light, not heat.
Irisen didn't strike Veylan.
He stabbed the Brand into the floor, channelling all his flame into the earth—redirecting the unstable emberstone charge downward, away from the spire.
The fire roared around him.
Pain seared.
The world turned white.
⸻
He awoke in a healer's den.
Elyra sat beside him, bruised but alive. Kareth stood at the door.
Maerel had survived.
So had the city.
But Veylan had escaped.
"I failed," Irisen rasped.
"No," Elyra said. "You lit a fire. The people saw what you did. The Ashen Lords don't control the Vale anymore."
Kareth looked toward the mountain sky. "But they know your name now."
⸻
Far beyond the Vale, atop a black tower made of bones and regret, a horned figure stared into the fire.
A general of the Ashen Lords.
The Scorch-King.
"He is not ready," one lieutenant whispered.
"No," the Scorch King replied. "But he will be."
And then he smiled—horribly.
"Because I will be the one to finish what the Everburn Heart started."