"Not all ruins fall in silence. Some scream for centuries."
—Old soldier's proverb from the Terenhold Archives
....
The fire within Ash would not sleep.
Even in the silence of sanctuary, it stirred. Beneath his skin, in the marrow of his bones, a whisper of heat moved like a creature waking from centuries of slumber. His breath steamed in the cold air of the ruined cathedral, and his fingers trembled—not from fear, but from power he had not yet learned to wield.
The embers had taken root.
Ash sat on a broken pew in the nave of the collapsed chapel, the moonlight streaming through the shattered rose window overhead. The sacred glass once depicted Lysaria's crowning—now, the Queen's face was reduced to shards at his feet.
Lira approached without a word, her footfalls silent as mist. She handed him a tin bowl of something warm. Root stew. Bitter and heavy with smoke, but it grounded him.
"You shouldn't be alive," she said softly, sitting beside him.
"I watched Renn die," he murmured. "Torn apart."
"You'll see worse," Lira said. "If you continue down this road."
Ash didn't look at her. "I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice. But the right one usually burns the hardest."
Across the chamber, the Wyrm-Priest remained seated beneath the altar, wrapped in violet-grey robes that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. His pale eyes glowed with faint inner light—blind but seeing something deeper.
"You're certain he's her heir?" Lira asked.
"I was there the day Queen Lysaria vanished," the Wyrm-Priest rasped. "She entrusted me with a shard that no one should ever awaken. And yet, here he is."
Ash touched the spot just below his collarbone, where the shard now lay embedded beneath his skin—a shard of the Crown. His breath quickened.
"What happens now?" he asked.
The Wyrm-Priest rose slowly, revealing the dark sigils etched into the stone behind him—ancient words in the tongue of Ascendants. "Now, child of fire, you begin to walk your Path."
---
They descended into the catacombs beneath Old Terenhold by lantern light.
The Bonewalk tunnels had once served as a burial ground for royal retainers, but now they belonged to rats, smugglers, and worse. Lira moved ahead with blade drawn, her mirrored dagger reflecting strange echoes of herself in the damp stone.
Ash followed, unsure which unnerved him more—the shifting flicker of his shard, or the way shadows seemed to cling to the walls, watching them pass.
"I've read about the Pathways," Ash said. "But most of it's legend. Stories."
"They were never meant to be stories," Lira said without turning. "They were warnings."
The Wyrm-Priest spoke behind them. "Each shard contains a seed of the Crown's original power. To awaken it fully, one must endure trials—each shaped by the Path they've inherited."
Ash furrowed his brow. "Mine is fire."
"The Path of Flame," the Priest said. "It brings destruction, rebirth, and madness. The shard grants you truth—but strips away the lies you cling to. It burns illusions. Including your own."
Ash clenched his fists.
"Where are we going?"
"To the Forge of Cindrel," Lira answered. "Buried beneath the old Ember Guild. A place where Crown's Disciples once trained."
"And now?"
"Now, it's cursed ground."
---
They reached the gate just before dawn.
A rusted iron archway marked the entrance to the sunken forge—its inscription barely legible through soot and grime:
"Through flame, we find the Crown."
The gates opened not with magic, but with Ash's blood. A flick of his flame across the glyphs caused the stone to groan open, revealing stairs spiraling into deep crimson light.
Inside, heat wafted from below—not oppressive, but living.
The forge remembered.
Lira stopped short. "We're not alone."
Figures stepped from the shadows—hooded, masked in ash-colored cloth, eyes glowing faint cerulean. The largest among them bore a staff made of twisted obsidian and flame-scored bone.
Ash recognized them from stories whispered in the orphan dens.
"The Cindersworn," he breathed.
The tallest one inclined his head. "The Crown's son returns. But this place is not for you."
Ash stepped forward. "This forge was built for Disciples."
"And left to die when your mother broke the Crown," the leader spat. "We keep its fire. You bring its ruin."
"Move," Lira said. "Or burn."
"You misunderstand." The Cindersworn raised his hand.
And the ground caught fire.
---
They fought among collapsing pillars and molten fountains.
Ash moved like heat—his blade dancing with living flame, each stroke fed by the shard pulsing in his chest. The fire obeyed him more eagerly now, leaping from his fingertips to form arcs, lashes, even a short-lived barrier of molten glass.
But the Cindersworn were not mere cultists.
Each bore fragments of forgotten techniques—half-remembered rituals once used by Crown's Disciples. They moved like echoes of old wars, striking with flame-wreathed fists and shielding with magma-hardened armor.
Lira darted between them, illusions trailing in her wake. One moment she was behind Ash—then suddenly across the room, striking with ghostly precision. Her Path of Mirrors gave her flashes of foresight, but her expression tightened with each use.
Too much strain.
Ash felt something change within him.
The shard blazed.
His thoughts slowed. His heartbeat synchronized with the rhythm of fire itself.
He saw through the flames.
An opening.
Ash stepped through a wall of fire unscathed, his blade humming.
He struck the Cindersworn leader directly—breaking the man's staff and sending molten sparks into the vaulted ceiling.
The enemy fell, coughing blood and fire.
"The forge will… not… accept you…"
Ash raised his blade.
"It already has."
---
Silence fell in the wake of burning corpses.
The forge's inner gates swung open of their own accord, revealing a chamber as old as the Crown itself.
Molten light flowed from rivers beneath the stone, and above them hung a massive, cracked anvil, suspended in chains that hummed with ancient magic. Symbols of the Crown glowed faintly along the walls—five points of a broken star.
Lira moved cautiously, blade still drawn. "This place remembers."
Ash stepped into the center of the room, drawn by the pull of his shard. The flames did not burn him—they bowed.
The altar rose from the center of the forge, and upon it lay a blackened crown fragment, scorched but not broken, hovering inches above the stone.
As Ash reached for it, the forge shimmered.
He saw not his own reflection—but a version of himself, cloaked in ash, crowned in fire, and standing atop a mountain of bone.
The image vanished.
Lira gasped. "That wasn't a vision."
Ash's fingers brushed the shard.
> And the forge whispered:
"Crown's Disciple. The First Trial Awaits."
A tremor rolled beneath their feet.
From deeper within the forge, a great roar echoed—inhuman, hungry, ancient.
Lira turned sharply. "What was that?"
The Wyrm-Priest, who had just entered behind them, paled.
"That," he said slowly, "was not meant to wake."
Ash turned toward the darkness.
And the fire within him roared in answer.
---