Chapter 20 – The Chosen for the Fire
The fires in the Patriarch's courtyard had burned for almost two weeks without rest.
The Desolate Core refinement had claimed more strength — and more lives — than the tribe had expected.
Half of the original workers now lay sick in their huts, trembling under feverish blankets. Some had gone mad, muttering nonsense about "voices in the flame" before collapsing into silence.
Still, the cauldron burned on. The refinement couldn't stop — not until the essence was fully drawn out for Ren Flintclaw's cultivation.
But with so many fallen, new hands were needed.
The Patriarch stood before the gathered villagers that morning, his once-steady voice cracking from exhaustion.
"The tribe must endure," he declared. "The Desolate Core is our future. The Ironfang Dominion's selection is only two months away. Young Master Ren will rise — and with him, our name."
He raised a trembling hand. "Those strong enough to work will receive extra grain. Those who assist with refinement will earn a warrior's merit."
A ripple passed through the crowd — half fear, half hunger.
The people remembered the Patriarch's pills that "cured" the sick. They believed that as long as they were given medicine, they would survive.
Zac stood near the back, listening silently. Lyra was beside him, her face pale.
"Zac," she whispered, "you're not thinking what I think you are."
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the cauldron in the distance, its dull white smoke rising like a ghost.
"If I could get close," he murmured, "I could study it — see how they're refining the energy. Maybe even… learn how to control it."
"Control it?" she hissed. "Zac, those people are dying!"
Her voice shook with anger and fear. "You're not even fifteen. Do you want to end up like them?"
He turned to her, gaze steady. "If I keep hiding, I'll never change anything. If I understand how the Desolate Core works, I might learn how to protect us — maybe even heal the others."
Lyra clenched her fists. "I don't care about the others! I care about you!"
Her voice cracked, echoing in the morning chill.
Zac smiled faintly. "And that's why I have to do this."
That evening, the courtyard gates burst open.
The cauldron's fires dimmed for the first time in days as a figure strode out of the forge hall — tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in silver.
Ren Flintclaw had emerged from seclusion.
His red veins gleamed faintly beneath his skin, eyes sharp and hungry. He carried himself like a young war god returning from conquest, though his expression betrayed irritation — the mark of someone still trapped beneath the next bottleneck.
The Patriarch hurried forward, bowing deeply. "Young Master Ren! You've recovered!"
Ren's lips curved. "Recovered, yes. Advanced?" His gaze flicked toward the cauldron, cold and assessing. "Not yet. These cores are stubborn."
He turned toward the gathered villagers. "I heard we've run short on workers."
The Patriarch nodded grimly. "Yes, Young Master. Many have fallen ill. We've begun recruiting new men, but few have the courage."
Ren's gaze swept across the crowd — casual, predatory.
When his eyes fell on Zac, they lingered.
The faintest smile touched his lips.
"Well, well. The little brat still breathes."
He stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel, and studied Zac from head to toe. "You've grown tougher, haven't you? I heard you've been training in the back mountains."
Zac bowed slightly, careful not to meet his eyes too long. "Only a little, Young Master. I wish to serve the tribe — to help with the refinement."
Ren's smile widened. "You?" He chuckled softly. "A boy barely old enough to hold a hammer wants to refine the Desolate Core?"
The crowd murmured — some amused, others horrified.
Even the Patriarch blinked in surprise. "Zac… that task is too dangerous. The energy around the core corrodes even trained men—"
"I insist," Zac said. "If it will help the tribe, I'm willing."
Ren raised a hand, silencing the Patriarch. "Let him."
"But, Young Master—"
"Let him," Ren repeated, his tone calm but absolute. "If he wants to serve, let him serve."
He looked down at Zac, his smile warm but his eyes glacial. "Your spirit is admirable, boy. The tribe needs brave hearts like yours."
Zac bowed again. "Thank you, Young Master Ren."
As Zac turned to leave, Ren's expression shifted — warmth draining into cruel amusement.
Inwardly, he sneered. Foolish child. You think standing near the cauldron makes you strong?
He glanced toward the Patriarch. "Make sure the boy is given a position close to the flames. He'll learn plenty."
"Yes, Young Master."
Ren watched Zac walk away, the glow of the firelight reflecting in his cold eyes.
Let him touch the Desolate Core, he thought. Let him breathe its poison. In three days, he'll be coughing blood like the others. Then his sister will have no choice but to come to me — begging for help.
A faint laugh escaped him, quiet enough for no one to hear.
"Children who reach for the heavens," he murmured, "always burn first."
In their hut, Lyra sat silent as Zac packed a small cloth bag with rags and tools.
"You've made up your mind," she said softly.
He nodded. "I have."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced a trembling smile. "Then promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Come back alive."
Zac looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. "Always."
Outside, the wind carried the scent of smoke and frost.
From the direction of the forge, the Desolate Core pulsed faintly — like a frozen heart beating beneath the earth.
And somewhere in the dark, Ren Flintclaw's cold laughter echoed, swallowed by the roar of fire.