The Mountain paths curved sharply into the highlands of Eldreth, where the air was thin and ancient winds whispered through the peaks like ghosts. It was said that here, hidden in the crags of the oldest mountain, the First Flame had once been born—a primordial fire from which all magic drew breath. It was the only place where Ashen might learn the truth of his creation—and perhaps, a way to sever his tie to the Harrow.
Caelara walked ahead in silence, her face drawn, the loss of her cherished memory weighing heavily on her. She couldn't recall what she had given up, only the ache of absence—like knowing a song but forgetting the melody. Yet, she pressed on, her sense of purpose driving her.
Ashen trailed behind, quiet, but different now. Since the storm, he had changed. Not in power alone, but in presence. The wild, unmoored force within him had gained edges—discipline, control. Caelara had seen a glimpse of the man he could become: not a destroyer, but a guardian.
At the summit of the highest peak stood a crumbling stone altar, carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly in the twilight. The altar encircled a shallow pit, blackened and cracked—the birthplace of the First Flame.
Ashen approached and knelt, placing his hand on the stone. The air grew warmer, then hot, as sparks began to dance beneath his skin.
Visions assaulted him.
He saw the birth of stars… fire shaping the world… beings of flame and shadow at war… and then, a figure of light, radiant and burning, cradling a single ember—him—in their hands.
He gasped and pulled back. Caelara rushed to him.
"I saw them," he said. "The Starborn. My kind. I'm not just tied to the Harrow… I was made to hold it. To keep it in balance."
Caelara's eyes widened. "You're not the Harrow itself. You're its vessel."
He nodded. "If I lose control… it consumes me. But if I master it…"
"You can seal it away," she finished. "Or wield it—to rewrite the fate the prophecy foretells."
A voice echoed through the chamber, low and ancient.
"Then you must choose, Ashen Starborn."
From the shadows stepped a being cloaked in ash and embers—neither man nor god. Its body shimmered with dying fire, its eyes like twin coals.
"I am the Echo of the Flame. You come seeking mastery, but you must pass the Trial of Dual Fire. One path ends in light. The other, in ash."
Ashen stood, fear tightening in his chest. "What is the trial?"
The Echo raised a hand, and the altar flared to life. Two flames burst into existence—one gold, bright and wild. The other, deep red, slow and seething.
"You must walk between them. You must face your future and your past. One will try to consume you. The other will offer you power. To pass, you must deny both."
The fire swirled into a gateway of flame and shadow. Without hesitation, Ashen stepped in.
Inside was no fire—only memory.
He stood on the cliffs above his ruined village. His mother's scream echoed through the wind. He saw himself, younger, powerless, watching the sky burn.
Then, the vision shifted.
He saw himself as the Harrow—wings of flame, eyes like the sun, cities falling beneath him. The world trembling.
He fell to his knees, the weight of both visions threatening to tear him apart. He wanted to reject them both—but they were him. The child. The destroyer. The vessel.
"I don't reject you," he said softly. "I accept you. All of it. I am fire. But I choose how I burn."
The flames pulsed—and then shattered.
Ashen awoke gasping, kneeling before the altar once more. The Echo was gone. In his hand rested a small ember, white and gold, humming with power.
He had passed.
Caelara knelt beside him, tears in her eyes. "You did it."
"No," he said quietly. "We did."
As they descended the mountain, the skies cleared—briefly. But far to the east, black clouds rose on the horizon.
The Harrow was stirring.
And time was running out