The palace never truly slept.
Even when the candles flickered low and the corridors emptied, whispers remained—soft footsteps cloaked in shadow, too light for any guard to catch.
Aaron woke with a weight pressing on his chest—not fear, not pain, but something else entirely.
A feeling that something was wrong.
He rose, a faint blue flame kindling gently in his palm, and opened the door to the outer hall.
There stood a man.
Not a soldier. Not a servant.
A figure draped in red robes, his face concealed, hands wrapped in crimson flames that twisted and writhed unnaturally—unlike Aaron's blue fire, this flame screamed without sound.
"Aaron Hotveil," the man hissed. "Your fire does not belong here."
Aaron stepped backward cautiously.
"Neither does yours."
Without hesitation, the man lunged forward.
---
Flame met flame.
But the heat was unlike any Aaron had known.
His fire remembered—it moved with precision, with feeling, with memory. The assassin's fire consumed—it was empty, chaotic.
The corridor erupted in strange colors. A painting burst into flames. Marble cracked beneath the assault.
Aaron dodged a fiery blast, rolled beneath a burning table, then slammed his palm to the stone floor. Blue flame surged through the tiles, bursting forth beneath the assassin's feet.
The man screamed as memories scorched his very soul.
"Your fire… it speaks…" he gasped.
Then, he exploded into ash.
---
The guards arrived moments too late.
But someone else came first.
A woman in the robes of the Council, her mask hanging loosely from one hand. Her gray eyes were sharp, unblinking.
"They sent one of the Red Flame cultists," she said quietly.
Aaron studied her closely.
"And you just happened to be here?"
She did not answer.
"You are not safe. Not even behind the Council's walls. Some want your fire silenced. Others… want to use it."
"And you?" he asked.
She smiled faintly.
"I want to see if you are more than just fire."
---
That very night, she returned. Alone. In secret.
She carried a sealed envelope.
"This is not from the Council. It is from me."
Aaron opened it.
Inside was a map. A name. A symbol—half Skyborn, half Eldemar.
"I want to talk," she said. "But not here. Midnight. No guards. No questions."
"Why should I trust you?" he asked.
"You shouldn't," she replied. "But I saw how your fire moved tonight… and I believe you're not here to serve."
"You're here to choose."