The night deepened, thick and oppressive in the hidden chamber beneath Caldrith.
Maerik spoke of ancient wars, of forgotten gods whose names were lost to time, of powers too vast and terrible for mortal minds to comprehend. Caelen sat motionless, each word weighing heavier on him than the last.
"You must understand," Maerik said, pacing before a smoking brazier, "you are not simply a vessel. You are a choice."
Caelen frowned. "A choice for what?"
"For life. Or annihilation."
The ember in his chest pulsed softly, a rhythm that seemed almost… expectant.
Maerik leaned heavily on the table, the candlelight carving deep lines into his weathered face.
"Veythar calls to you because it recognizes you. Somehow, your blood, your spirit, matches what was once sealed behind that door."
He turned to a battered map pinned to the wall, tracing a line from Caldrith toward the distant mountains.
"The door lies in the ruins of Orynth Valis," he said. "An ancient city swallowed by the earth. If you reach it, you may be able to seal the ember forever—or unleash what sleeps."
"Why me?" Caelen said, voice low.
"Because you were chosen," Maerik said simply. "Or cursed."
⸻
The next morning, Maerik handed Caelen a small satchel.
Inside were supplies: dried meats, a flask of water, a flint striker, a rolled parchment map, and a dagger with a curious sigil etched into its hilt.
"This belonged to one who walked this path before you," Maerik said. "Use it well."
Caelen felt the dagger's weight—solid, reassuring.
He had no illusions about the road ahead. The Academy's reach was long. Sarn would not give up easily.
"You'll head east," Maerik said, pointing at the map. "Through the Weeping Woods, across the river Dreyl, and into the Ashen Plains. Beyond them lies Orynth Valis."
"And you?" Caelen asked.
The old man smiled thinly.
"I have my own part to play."
Something about his tone made Caelen shiver.
Maerik clasped Caelen's shoulder.
"Trust no one," he said. "Not even me."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the twisting shadows of the underground city.
⸻
Caelen emerged into Caldrith's slums at dawn, wrapped in a coarse cloak, the ember tucked safely beneath layers of cloth.
The city was waking slowly—merchants haggling over fish carts, beggars clustered around smoking fires, street children darting through alleys.
He kept his head down, moving swiftly through the labyrinthine streets.
But even among the crowds, he felt eyes on him.
At first, he thought it was just his imagination.
Then he saw the cloaked figure—a man with a heavy scar running from brow to chin—matching his pace two streets over.
He turned sharply into a market lane—and saw another figure ahead, a woman with a jagged blade hanging loosely at her side.
They were herding him.
Caelen ducked into a tannery, gagging on the stench of boiling leather, and slipped out the back through a low window.
He sprinted through the winding alleys, heart pounding.
The ember flared hot against his chest, warning him.
He burst into an open square—and skidded to a halt.
Four figures stood waiting.
They wore the black sigils of the Academy Enforcers.
Sarn had found him.
⸻
"Caelen Veyr," the lead Enforcer said, voice amplified by some unseen magic. "Surrender the ember and you will not be harmed."
A lie. He could see it in their eyes.
They drew their weapons—long, blackened blades etched with runes that hummed faintly.
Caelen took a step back.
The ember pulsed once—then erupted into a shockwave of heat.
The Enforcers staggered, momentarily blinded.
Caelen ran.
He ducked under a merchant's cart, vaulted a low wall, and sprinted down a narrow alley.
Shouts rose behind him.
He reached the edge of the city, lungs burning.
Ahead lay open fields—and beyond them, the dense tangle of the Weeping Woods.
He didn't hesitate.
He plunged into the trees.
⸻
The Weeping Woods were aptly named.
The trees themselves seemed to weep, thick sap dripping from gnarled branches like blood. The air was damp and heavy, the ground slick with moss and rot.
Caelen moved cautiously, knife in hand.
Strange sounds echoed through the mist: the low moan of shifting trees, the whisper of unseen creatures.
Once, he caught sight of something moving just beyond his vision—a massive, hulking shape that vanished when he turned toward it.
He pressed on.
Hours blurred into days.
Food ran low. Water grew scarce.
Still, the ember guided him—faint pulses directing him through the maze of the woods.
On the third night, he made camp beneath a leaning willow.
As he drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came again.
The black door loomed closer now, its crimson veins throbbing like a heartbeat.
Beyond the door, he heard a voice—a low, rumbling chant in a language he didn't understand.
When he woke, he found the ground around him scorched in a perfect circle.
⸻
Two days later, Caelen reached the Dreyl.
The river was swollen from recent rains, its waters churning violently.
A narrow bridge—little more than rotting planks lashed together with fraying ropes—spanned the torrent.
Caelen hesitated.
Then he heard the howls.
Behind him, dark shapes were moving through the woods.
Not Enforcers.
Something worse.
Something older.
He ran.
The bridge swayed dangerously under his weight.
Halfway across, a plank snapped.
He scrambled, barely catching himself on the rope.
The shapes reached the riverbank—twisted, half-human things with elongated limbs and eyeless faces.
One leapt onto the bridge behind him.
The whole structure buckled.
Caelen drew the dagger Maerik had given him and slashed at the ropes.
The bridge snapped.
He plunged into the icy river, the current tearing him away from the horrors on the shore.
⸻
The river carried him for miles.
When he finally dragged himself onto the far bank, he was bruised, bleeding, and half-frozen.
The ember, miraculously, was still intact.
He lay there for a long time, gasping, staring up at the storm-tossed sky.
Finally, he forced himself to his feet.
Ahead lay the Ashen Plains—a vast expanse of cracked earth and skeletal trees, stretching to the horizon.
Beyond them, somewhere, was Orynth Valis.
And the door.
Caelen squared his shoulders and moved forward.
⸻
Days passed in a haze of dust and thirst.
The Ashen Plains were a wasteland, scarred by ancient fires.
Here and there, he passed the remnants of forgotten battles: rusted weapons, bleached bones, shattered banners flapping in the dry wind.
Once, he found the remains of a great beast—its massive skull half-buried in the sand.
The ember grew heavier with each step.
At night, he saw strange lights on the horizon—pale blue fires that danced silently in the dark.
He did not approach them.
⸻
On the fifth day, Caelen stumbled across a settlement.
Or what remained of one.
Collapsed huts, blackened by fire. Scattered belongings abandoned in the dust.
And corpses.
Scores of them, twisted in agony.
It had not been war that killed them.
It had been something worse.
As he moved among the dead, he felt the ember vibrating violently.
He was not alone.
A figure stepped from the shadows of a broken well.
She was tall and cloaked in crimson, her face hidden behind a silver mask.
"Caelen Veyr," she said, her voice musical and deadly. "At last."
He raised his dagger.
She laughed—a sound like falling glass.
"I mean you no harm," she said. "Not yet."
"Who are you?" Caelen demanded.
"A Seeker," she said. "One who serves the old powers."
She removed her mask.
Beneath was a face that seemed both impossibly young and ancient.
"You carry the ember," she said. "You are the Key. The Door must be opened."
"I won't let that happen," Caelen said.
She tilted her head, studying him.
"You think you have a choice?"
The ember flared.
For a moment, Caelen glimpsed something behind her—vast wings of shadow, curling tendrils of smoke and flame.
She was not human.
Not anymore.
"Run if you like," she said. "The door will open. With or without you."
Then she was gone, dissolving into ash.
⸻
Caelen stumbled away from the ruined village, heart hammering.
The Seeker's words echoed in his mind.
You are the Key.
He had always thought he was fighting to prevent the old powers from returning.
But what if…?
What if the ember was changing him?
What if he was already too late?
⸻
As night fell over the Ashen Plains, Caelen stood atop a rocky outcrop.
In the distance, he saw them—towers of black stone rising from the earth, wreathed in mist.
Orynth Valis.
The lost city.
The place where everything would end—or begin.
The ember pulsed eagerly against his chest.
Behind him, distant on the horizon, he saw the glow of fires.
Sarn was coming.
The Academy would not allow him to reach the city alive.
And somewhere in the shadows, the Seeker watched, waiting.
Caelen drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders.
There was no turning back.