The warehouse reeked of rust and old secrets.
Lucien stepped through the heavy steel doors and into a world hidden behind Caldre's metal skin. Inside, orange-tinted light flickered from oil lamps lined along walls covered in faded graffiti, wires, and fragments of symbols he didn't understand. The air buzzed faintly, as if the walls breathed.
The man who brought him here said nothing. Neither did the woman. They walked like this was routine. Like bringing in a scared, half-burning kid was just Tuesday.
Lucien hated the silence.
"So," he said, voice sharp with sarcasm. "Is this where you sacrifice me to the fire gods, or is that after coffee?"
The woman didn't turn. "We don't worship fire. We survive it."
The man added, "And sometimes we let it speak."
Lucien rolled his eyes. "So dramatic."
But the truth was—his hands still burned. That faint orange pulse hadn't left since he took the coin. It wasn't hot. Not painful. Just... there. Like a second heartbeat.
They passed through a curtain of chains and entered a larger chamber. This one had a ring of metal spires around the walls, each glowing faint blue. In the center stood a pedestal, blackened by past fires. Scorch marks crawled along the floor like charred veins.
And sitting beside the pedestal was a boy.
Maybe a year younger than Lucien. Pale skin. Sharp jawline. One eye was covered with a silver plate, wired into his temple like tech grown into bone. The other eye burned gold.
He looked up.
Lucien felt something in the air shift.
"New flame," the boy said, standing slowly. "You smell like smoke."
Lucien instinctively stepped back. "Who's this creep?"
"Name's Casen," the boy said. "And you're standing where people either wake up—or burn out."
Lucien blinked. "You people seriously need better metaphors."
The man finally turned. "Casen reads Ember lines. He can sense how much you've awakened. How dangerous you are. Or might become."
Casen smiled. It wasn't kind.
"I also punch."
Lucien smirked. "Good. I was starting to worry no one here knew how to have fun."
The man gestured to the pedestal. "Place your hand there."
Lucien's smirk faded.
"What happens if I do?"
The woman, arms crossed, spoke up. "We see if the fire in you is real. Or if it's just flickers."
Lucien eyed the blackened surface. "And if it is real?"
"Then it starts waking up," the man said quietly.
Lucien hesitated.
His instincts screamed at him. Run. Hide. Survive.
But another voice—one deeper, angrier—whispered:You've been hiding your whole life. Isn't it time to burn?
He stepped forward.
Raised his right hand.
And placed it on the pedestal.
At first, nothing.
Then, the cold.
It seeped into his skin like liquid ice, burrowing into his veins. He gasped. His legs buckled. But he didn't let go.
The cold deepened—then flipped.
Heat. Blinding, surging heat.
Images slammed into his mind:
A tower engulfed in flame.
A woman screaming his name.
His hands—glowing molten gold—ripping chains from metal walls.
A throne made of ash.
A voice—deep, ancient—whispering: "The Ember remembers."
Lucien screamed. His body arched. Fire spiraled out from the pedestal in threads of light, snaking up the spires, pulsing like veins.
The room exploded in color.
The chains on the walls rattled. The graffiti glowed. The blue-lit towers buzzed louder.
Casen watched, eyes wide. "He's not flickers."
The woman muttered, "He's a damn ignition."
Lucien collapsed to his knees.
Smoke curled off his shoulders. His hoodie had burned open in the center, revealing his chest—and the symbol glowing there.
A jagged flame, coiled around a chain, pulsed orange just below his collarbone.
He panted, dizzy. "What the hell… was that…"
The man crouched beside him.
"That," he said, "was your Ember waking."
Lucien couldn't sleep that night.
They gave him a room in the back of the warehouse—bare mattress, metal walls, nothing but a vent humming in the ceiling.
But his body buzzed like it held lightning.
He could still see the visions. The voice. The symbol etched into his chest. No matter how many times he looked away, the faint orange glow bled through his shirt.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.
"You're not normal anymore."
He said it out loud.
Then laughed softly. "As if I ever was."
In the morning, he met them again in the training chamber. Casen stood waiting, arms folded, eye glinting.
"Ready to learn how to not explode?" he asked.
Lucien stretched his arms. "You're seriously the guy teaching me?"
Casen nodded. "I'm the only one dumb enough to take the job."
Training began brutal.
No fire. No powers.
Just control.
Casen pushed him hard—fighting stances, breathing drills, motion flow. Lucien complained at every step. But he did it. Because for the first time in his life, something mattered.
He was changing.
And someone wanted to help him do it.
After hours of motion, sweat, and a few bruises, Casen tossed Lucien a can of water and flopped onto the floor.
"You're not terrible," he said between gulps.
Lucien smirked. "You're welcome."
The woman walked in. She finally introduced herself.
"Vera."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "No code name?"
She shook her head. "We only hide from the Order. Not from each other."
He looked around. "So what is this place? Really?"
She hesitated.
Then: "We call ourselves the Kindled. We're all Ember-born. Or Ember-hurt."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "Hurt?"
She looked away. "Some of us didn't wake clean. Some burned too fast. Some… never woke at all."
Lucien went silent.
Casen sat up. "That's why we test. Why we train. The Ember's a force, not a gift. And if you don't learn to speak its language, it eats you."
Lucien stood, feeling the fire curl beneath his skin again.
"And the Vanta Order?"
Vera's jaw tightened.
"They hunt us. They erase us. To them, you're not a person. You're a threat to control."
Lucien looked at the glowing symbol under his shirt.
"So… when do I learn to fight back?"
End of Chapter 2