The sea surrounding Isle Kaer-thal was silent.
No waves. No wind. Just endless gray water and skies like ash. Even the flame inside Kael flickered nervously, as if sensing that fire itself was not welcome here.
Elira stood at the bow of their blackened skiff, her eyes narrow.
"This place is older than the Temple. The flame doesn't work the same here."
Kael gripped the edge of the boat.
"Then how do we retrieve a shard in a place that rejects fire?"
She looked back at him.
"By remembering what fire is for."
They docked on a jagged shore.
Bones littered the beach—not just animal, but giant, fossilized in prayer or agony. Massive ribcages curled like failed wings. Towering skulls lined the cliffs.
Kael's breath fogged for the first time in months.
The cold here wasn't weather—it was memory. Cold preserved by the Temple's greatest seal.
At the center of the island stood a monolith.
Twelve spears of white crystal circled a crater. At its heart floated the shard—blackened, cracked, humming like guilt. It pulsed not with warmth, but sorrow.
Elira stopped suddenly.
"That shard wasn't just left here."
Kael nodded.
"It was rejected."
As Kael stepped toward the crater, the air thickened.
Each step felt like dragging his soul across shards of broken glass.
Then the fog twisted.
And from it emerged… himself.
Not a mirror image—not exactly. This version of Kael wore a burned crown. His eyes were hollow coals. His armor was scorched into his flesh, and the First Flame hung from his hand like a dead serpent.
The copy tilted its head.
"You came to claim what you're afraid to become."
Kael froze.
Elira whispered:
"A soul echo. It's not just guarding the shard—it is what the shard became without its king."
The Burned Self walked forward.
"You think fire will make you free?"
Kael raised his blade.
"I think it gives me the choice to be more than ashes."
The echo laughed—a dry, cracked sound.
"Then burn, Kael."
The battle ignited instantly.
But no flame obeyed Kael's call.
Instead, the Burned Self attacked not with fire—but with guilt. Each strike carried a memory Kael had buried:
The night Nordheim burned.
Toren's corpse in the snow.
Dain, screaming as he stole the second shard.
Each memory landed like a blade, cutting deeper than steel.
Kael fell to his knees.
The shard above pulsed faster, as if feeding on his collapse.
"You are not the heir," the Burned Self hissed.
"You're just a boy too afraid to die."
But Kael whispered, "You're wrong."
He stood.
Not with rage.
With clarity.
"I'm afraid. I've always been. But fire isn't just destruction."
He opened his hand.
And instead of summoning flame…
He summoned forgiveness.
A single ember—soft, golden—glowed in his palm.
It floated upward.
The Burned Self lunged.
Kael didn't raise his sword.
He raised the ember.
And whispered, "I see you. I don't hate you."
The Burned Self stopped.
Cracked.
Flickered—
And vanished.
The shard dropped from the sky.
Kael caught it barehanded.
It was cold. Heavy. But it didn't resist.
It entered him quietly—not like fire, but like truth long denied.
The Codex opened.
A new line appeared:
"Even the flame must mourn what it could not save."
Later, Elira said nothing as they sailed away.
Kael stared at the horizon.
"There's a part of me that will always burn too hot."
Elira nodded.
"And now you've seen what happens if it does."
Kael touched the Codex. The third shard pulsed inside.
Three remembered. Six to go.
And for the first time…
The flame inside him didn't hunger.
It listened.