The gates of Elarion loomed like ancient sentinels—tall, silver-veined stone carved with reliefs of battles long passed. The city beyond shimmered under the morning light, spires rising like blades toward the sky, bridges suspended between towers like webs of glass and gold. Smoke curled from chimneys, not the acrid haze of industry but the warm scent of hearthfires, food, and life.
Kael and the others stood frozen at the edge of the causeway. A moment of silence passed between them. They had made it.
A guard in polished bronze armor approached. "State your names and purpose."
Kael stepped forward. "We were summoned by royal decree. From the outlands."
The guard looked them over—mud-splattered, road-weary, armed only with a dull dagger and a training blade. Doubt flickered across his face.
But then Kael pulled the sealed parchment from his satchel.
The guard's eyes narrowed at the wax crest: the Flame of the Crown. His expression changed.
"I'll escort you to the inner quarter."
Inside the gates, the city was alive.
Vendors shouted from narrow stalls, hawking bundles of saffron, cured meats, and scrolls with glowing ink. Children darted between fountains and alleys, weaving through clanging bells and clattering hooves. Glass spheres floated above street corners, casting gentle light over woven banners that read:
Welcome, Chosen of the Flame.
Berrin stopped walking. "They're expecting us?"
Aven snorted. "They're expecting someone. Let's hope they don't realize we're the wrong someones."
Kael kept moving. The noise, the people, the sheer scale of Elarion overwhelmed him—but more than anything, it felt like a city holding its breath. Like something deep beneath the cobbled streets was waiting to stir.
Their escort led them up a winding stair cut into the cliffs overlooking the harbor. Ships the size of cathedrals drifted below, sails furled, their hulls glowing faintly with embedded runes.
At the top, two massive doors—ebony and steel, each etched with the mark of the Everflame—opened with a slow groan.
"Presenting the summoned," the guard called.
They stepped into a high hall of glass and stone. Sunlight poured through the ceiling, painting the floor in shifting gold.
At the far end stood three figures: a woman in emerald robes, a man in ceremonial armor, and an elderly sage whose beard reached his belt. Behind them hung a tapestry showing four elemental pillars: Flame, Tide, Stone, and Sky.
The woman spoke first. Her voice was measured, yet powerful. "You are late."
Berrin coughed. "We were attacked. Blightborn."
All three leaders exchanged glances.
Kael stepped forward. "We were four. We are still four. That should tell you something."
The armored man studied him. "And what should it tell us, boy?"
"That you chose right," Kael said quietly.
The elder sage tilted his head. "Or that fate has begun to stir again."
They were led into private chambers afterward—lavish beyond anything they'd ever imagined. Polished floors, velvet-lined beds, crystal pitchers of citrus water. Even Aven didn't touch anything for the first few minutes.
But soon, weariness won. They collapsed into sleep without another word.
Kael woke hours later to a knock at the door.
A girl stood outside—no older than him, with almond skin, curious green eyes, and a blade strapped across her back. She wore the blue and silver of the royal wardens.
"Come. The High Flamekeeper requests you."
Kael followed her down stone corridors, past libraries and gardens suspended above the city like islands in the sky.
"Do you know why you were summoned?" she asked him as they walked.
"No."
She nodded as if that was the right answer.
"Most who come here think they're meant to be heroes. The Flame chooses differently."
"What does it choose?"
"Those who carry the wound of the world."
Kael didn't know what that meant. Not yet.
The chamber of the Flamekeeper was circular, every surface reflecting firelight from a brazier at the center. The same symbol he carried on his cloth—an ash tree wreathed in fire—was carved into the stone beneath it.
The Flamekeeper stood waiting, her robe edged in crimson thread that pulsed like veins of lava.
"You lit the flame," she said, without preamble.
"I didn't mean to."
"Few ever do."
She motioned for him to sit. "Do you know what it is you carry?"
Kael looked down at his hand. "Only that it burns without burning me. And that it… spoke."
"The Everflame is not just fire. It is the memory of creation. The first spark. The last breath. It chooses one bearer each era to awaken the slumbering bones of the world. And you, Kael of Brinmere, have been chosen."
Kael clenched his fists. "Why me?"
The Flamekeeper walked around the fire. "Because something has broken. The wards of the borderlands are failing. The Blightborn stir again. Old powers have begun to move. You were chosen not because you were ready—but because the world could no longer wait."
Kael swallowed hard.
"Velkaryn," he said suddenly. "Does that name mean something to you?"
The Flamekeeper paused.
Then she sat across from him, eyes steady. "Velkaryn is not a name we speak lightly. It is the fire that gave birth to stars—and to ruin. It was sealed during the Sundering by the Threefold Pact. If it has returned to your dreams… then you are more than Flamewrought."
"What am I?"
"Possibly… the end of something. Or the beginning."
Kael returned to his chambers just as the moon crested over the eastern cliffs. The others were awake now, and gathered around the window.
Below, in the streets, hundreds of candles had been lit.
A procession moved through the city—priests, soldiers, children—each carrying a light and singing an old hymn.
"What is it?" Kael asked.
"A vigil," Mira said softly. "For the fallen towns. Three more were lost this week. The Blight is spreading faster than they feared."
Kael stepped up to the glass. The lights looked like stars, scattered across the streets.
Aven looked at him. "Did they tell you what you are?"
Kael nodded.
"Well?" Berrin asked.
Kael stared out over the city of spires, where light flickered like hope, fragile and brave.
"I'm the one the fire chose."