The wind was crisp as Kael stepped out of the mountain, his boots touching grass instead of molten stone for the first time in weeks. The sun crept over the horizon, painting the sky in molten hues that mirrored the flame still alive in his chest.
Freedom.
The rebels followed behind him—Elara at his side, Lysaria just behind, and the others emerging with wary relief. Their numbers had dwindled, but their spirits had never burned brighter.
"Elara," Kael said, watching the golden valley below. "Do you think they'll accept me now? Or fear me even more?"
She tilted her head. "You shattered the Sovereign's grip on this land. That's more than anyone's done in a century."
"But I still carry the Flame," he murmured.
"And I still carry this blade," she replied, unsheathing her sword and holding it up. "It can protect or kill. It depends on the hand."
Kael offered her a crooked smile. "You always know what to say."
Elara shrugged. "Someone has to keep your feet on the ground, Fireheart."
He chuckled. "That's not my name."
"It is now."
As they began descending the slope into the valley, cheers erupted from below. The scattered resistance camps—those who had waited for any sign of victory—rushed forward as word spread like wildfire.
"The Sovereign is gone!"
"The Flame has a new keeper!"
Kael paused as dozens of villagers, soldiers, and exiled mages gathered, their eyes full of hope... and hesitation. He saw in their faces what he feared: awe, mixed with fear.
Then a young girl ran forward. She held a wilted flower, singed at the edges. Her small hands trembled as she looked up at Kael.
"Can you fix it?" she asked.
Kael blinked. "The flower?"
She nodded.
Slowly, he knelt. Fire danced at his fingertips, and instead of searing, it shimmered with warmth. He touched the stem—and before their eyes, the flower's petals unfurled, vibrant and whole once more.
A soft gasp rippled through the crowd.
The girl smiled and whispered, "Thank you, Fireheart."
And just like that, the fear melted into wonder.
Kael stood, heart hammering. This was what the Flame could do—what it was meant for.
But not all were watching with gratitude.
In the shadows of the trees, cloaked figures observed, silent. One leaned toward another and murmured, "He's grown stronger. Too strong. If he unites the lands, the Seal will break."
The second figure nodded. "Then we strike before he finds the Gate."
Far from the valley, deep in the Eastern Wastes, a door sealed in obsidian groaned—its ancient runes flickering for the first time in a thousand years.
A voice beyond it stirred.
"The Flame... has awakened."
Back at the rebel camp, Lysaria pored over ancient scrolls taken from the Sovereign's archives. Her hands trembled slightly as she found a torn page—a prophecy half-burned, but still legible:
> "When the forsaken fire finds a pure soul, light and dark shall rise once more. And from the broken sky, the true trial begins."
She looked up, alarm in her eyes. "Kael," she whispered to herself. "It's not over."
In the camp's center, Kael helped villagers repair tents, laughing with children and tending to the wounded. For once, peace felt real.
But in the wind, a whisper carried from the mountains—a hiss, like the dying breath of a dragon.
Kael turned sharply, eyes narrowing toward the north.
Something was coming.
And the flame within him pulsed again—not with warning, but with anticipation.