The storm that had awakened Surya left a strange stillness in its wake. Wind no longer whispered through the trees. The grove—once alive with birdcalls and rustling leaves—was eerily silent. Ash clung to the blackened branches like mourning veils.
Surya staggered forward, his senses raw. The air smelled of scorched earth and forgotten power. Around him, jagged glass-like formations jutted from the ground—remnants of sand fused into crystal by unimaginable heat.
He turned back briefly. Where he'd lain unconscious moments ago was now a scorched crater, its edges glowing faintly like dying embers.
"What… was that?"
He placed a hand on his chest. The spiral mark had changed. What once looked like a broken ray now pulsed with symmetrical lines—alive, breathing almost. A flicker of red light ran through it, and with it, an eerie sense of awareness.
Then came the whispers. Not from outside—but within.
"They see the mark. They will come."
"Run."
Surya flinched and spun around. No one. Just the wind picking up again, curling around his feet like invisible snakes.
He ran.
Ash flew beneath his boots as he darted across the scorched plains, weaving between twisted remnants of trees and charred stones. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to move.
He crested a ridge and stopped.
In the distance, a procession of figures in dark armor approached. They moved with mechanical precision. At the front rode a man cloaked in silver, his eyes covered by a circlet of glass. Even from afar, Surya could feel the weight of his gaze.
They are not here to help.
He turned and dashed toward a ravine carved deep into the earth, barely visible behind the rising steam.
As he scrambled down, fingers clutching at roots and jagged rock, he heard it—the hum. Not of wind. Not of power.
Of chanting.
Low and rhythmic, as though the earth itself was reciting a forgotten mantra.
He dropped to the bottom of the ravine—and found the source.
An old man sat cross-legged beside a pool of molten stone. Symbols hovered above the lava like hovering fireflies. His robes were burnt at the edges, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes snapped open.
"I told them it wasn't time," the man rasped. "But they never listen."
Surya hesitated. "Who—who are you?"
The man smiled. "I'm the one who waited. For you."
The ground trembled. A streak of black fire shot across the sky. The Order had found him.
"You have no idea what you've become," the old man said. "But if you want to live… jump."
"Jump?!"
The man pointed into the lava pool. "It's not fire that kills, boy. It's fear."
Surya's breath caught. The chanting in the air intensified. His mark pulsed. And suddenly—he understood.
He leapt.
He didn't fall into the lava.
He fell through it.
The world warped around him—stone became sky, ash turned to light. His body spiraled through layers of sensation he couldn't name.
Then he hit something.
A floor. Smooth. Cold.
He gasped and sat up.
He was in a massive underground chamber, shaped like an ancient temple. Runes lined the obsidian walls, glowing faintly with elemental energy.
The old man stood beside him, now wreathed in flames that didn't burn.
"This place is beyond the reach of the Order. For now," he said. "But you don't have long."
"Who are the Order?" Surya asked.
"They call themselves the Ardent Veil. Enforcers of purity. But they hunt anything… unnatural."
"Why me?"
"Because your flame is wrong," the man said simply. "And wrong is dangerous."
Surya looked down at his chest. The mark pulsed again—brighter this time. "I didn't choose this."
"Power rarely asks permission."
The man walked to a pedestal in the center of the room. Upon it lay a shard of black crystal. He held it out.
"This is a Flame Shard. Attune to it, and your journey begins."
"What if I don't want this journey?"
"Then the Ashlands will claim your bones."
Surya took the shard. The moment his fingers touched it, a jolt of heat surged into his spine. Visions flared behind his eyes—worlds burning, realms collapsing, the eyes of something vast and ancient staring into his soul.
And then—clarity.
He stood still, breathing hard, sweat rolling down his brow. "What… was that?"
"Your first glimpse of truth," the old man said. "The first step on the Path."
Surya's hands clenched around the shard.
The Ashlands were no longer home.
They were a crucible.
He would not burn.
He would rise.