The days blurred into sweat and fire.
At the Citadel of the Flamebound, Eryon trained without pause. Every morning began before the sun rose, and every night ended long after it had fallen. He no longer tracked time in hours, but in burns, bruises, and breakthroughs.
"Again," said Master Ignaros, standing like a pillar of stone near the blazing circle. "If your flame cannot shield you, it is not worthy of you."
Eryon exhaled slowly and stepped into the ring of fire. The tongues of flame lashed against his skin, testing the limits of his control.
He focused.
I am not separate from the fire. I am the fire.
The flames bent, coiling around his body—not consuming, but guarding.
Ignaros's expression shifted slightly. "Good. But the real enemy will not be kind enough to burn only your skin. Tomorrow, we begin on soul tempering."
In the afternoon, Eryon sparred with two senior initiates in the Hall of Brands. Their styles were wildly different—one used chains of flame, the other wielded twin sabers that danced like wildfire.
Eryon struggled at first, relying too much on strength and not enough on timing. But as the match continued, he began to see the rhythm of their attacks.
By the end, he stood bleeding, but victorious.
That evening, he sat alone by the Emberwell. The once-silent forge now pulsed with a faint echo whenever he approached. As if recognizing him.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused, scarred, steady.
"I don't want to be a weapon," he whispered. "But if I must be one… I'll be the kind that chooses who to burn."
Behind him, Serana's voice rang out. "The Empire will remember that. And so will your enemies."
Eryon stood, eyes reflecting the flickering red light.
"Let them come."