---
Riven stood barefoot in the river.
It wasn't water that lapped at his calves, but the soft current of the Wyrmline, that glowing thread of molten energy coiled through the base of the Vale. Every few seconds, a faint pulse rose from below, like something ancient breathing in sleep.
"You want to move faster," Vaelin said from the riverbank. "Then you must first learn to still yourself where movement is impossible."
The flame on Riven's forearm flickered again, responding not to his focus, but to the wild surge of thoughts he was trying not to feel.
Lyra. Kael. The dream. The Mirror Knight's death. The screams. His father's pendant, still warm against his chest.
Too much.
"Close your eyes," Vaelin said.
Riven did.
The silence of the river became absolute.
"Now hold the Burn."
He exhaled slowly, letting the Flame Seal activate just beneath the skin of his right palm.
Heat coiled upward like a whisper. It didn't burn yet. Not physically. But every second it grew inside him, the more it fought for release.
This was the essence of the Burn Frame.
Holding the energy just long enough to shape it.
To give it purpose.
Riven's fingers trembled.
"Hold."
His vision darkened at the edges.
His knees wobbled.
He grit his teeth. Sweat slid down his back.
Flame was not meant to be patient.
It was born to consume.
"Hold."
The seal cracked. A burst of fire erupted from Riven's shoulder. He gasped and fell to his knees, coughing, pain lancing through his spine.
The Wyrmline beneath him flared red for a heartbeat, then calmed.
"You lasted longer," Vaelin noted.
"That was agony," Riven spat, still on all fours.
"Good. It means you're alive."
---
Later that afternoon, Vaelin led Riven into the western crypt tunnels of the Vale—an area marked with warning symbols and carved obsidian wards.
"Where are we going?" Riven asked.
"To meet the flame in its natural form."
The corridor opened into a chamber filled with shallow pits, each smoldering with faint embers. The walls were scorched black. The ceiling had long since collapsed, replaced with a network of stone beams and crystal veins that caught the flicker of light in eerie patterns.
At the far end stood Tarn—the fire monk. Head shaved, robes in ceremonial gold, eyes closed. He knelt beside one of the pits, murmuring softly.
Tarn looked up as they approached. "You've come to burn away your weakness."
Riven frowned. "What does that mean?"
Tarn gestured for him to sit across from him, legs folded, palms resting on his knees. "There is a difference between enduring flame and becoming its vessel. You must learn to carry it without leaking."
"I'm not leaking," Riven muttered.
"Then why do you bleed it every time you breathe?" Tarn asked.
Before Riven could respond, Vaelin spoke.
"He's ready. Begin the rite."
Tarn's hands moved swiftly—tracing sigils in the air. The embers around them lifted. The temperature spiked.
Riven felt the burn before he saw the flames.
His vision swam. The seal on his arm lit without command.
Then the fire entered him.
Not from the outside. From beneath his skin.
The pain was immediate.
He screamed—but no sound left his throat.
The flame wasn't trying to harm him.
It was trying to become him.
---
Riven fell forward the moment the fire withdrew.
Steam hissed from his skin. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like war drums, and the chamber spun around him as though the very walls were on fire. Tarn caught him before he hit the stone, fingers steady, breath calm.
"You live," the monk said.
"Feels like I shouldn't," Riven rasped.
"That's how you know it worked."
Riven coughed, then realized he wasn't just drenched in sweat. The Seal on his forearm had cracked—not broken, but split with glowing fractures like tempered glass.
Not damage.
Evolution.
The seal hadn't resisted the flame. It had accepted it—and changed.
Vaelin crouched beside him, examining the cracks.
"This is the first time it's reshaped itself without external pressure," he said. "You've finally begun to shape it from within."
Riven's breathing slowed. He felt... different.
The heat was still there. But it no longer fought him.
It pulsed with him.
---
That evening, Kael didn't return to the dormitory.
He stood near the cavern wall where the Wyrmline curved into shadows. He hadn't drawn his blade in days. Not since the vision of Lyra whispering in his dreams, her voice not quite her own.
He closed his eyes and called softly, "If you're still there... come."
The air shimmered.
A shadow stepped from the stone. Hooded. Formless. No face—only a mouth where mist curled.
"You called."
"You gave Lyra her strength," Kael said. "You... made her forget."
"I gave her what she desired. As I could give you."
"I don't want it."
"You will."
Kael drew his sword. Just slightly. Just enough that it hissed.
"I'll protect her without tricks."
The shadow tilted its head.
"She is far closer to becoming us than you are."
Then it vanished.
Kael stood alone.
But the cold lingered in his bones.
---
Later that night, Riven finally walked again.
His skin still steamed faintly. His hair was damp with sweat, and his vision had narrowed to a strange, heightened clarity—colors too bright, sounds too sharp.
But something else was stirring in him.
Power.
Not raw magic.
Not fury.
But command.
As he returned to the upper chambers of the Vale, he noticed a folded cloth placed on his bed. Pale gray silk, untouched by dust. He opened it.
Inside was a single black ribbon.
Familiar.
He had seen it tied around Lyra's arm on the night they met.
There was something written on the inside hem in jagged ink.
> "They know your name now. You must burn brighter than they fear."
No signature.
But he didn't need one.
---
The next morning, Riven entered the circle alone.
Vaelin watched him from the steps above.
"I'm not afraid anymore," Riven said.
"No. You're just learning how to carry it."
Riven summoned flame.
No Seal.
No incantation.
It came to him like breath.
And it burned in perfect silence.
---