Chapter Four: Trial by Flame
The hall of the Rite was ancient—older than Aethar's throne itself, carved into the belly of the mountain where the Emberheart was first discovered. The path to it was long and silent, broken only by the sound of Elira's heartbeat thundering in her ears and the steady march of the High Priestess leading her.
Torches clung to the walls like watchful eyes, their flames flaring brighter as she passed, drawn to her. The pendant at her neck—the Emberheart—burned hot against her skin, as though waking from a long slumber.
Elira didn't look back.
She couldn't.
Behind her were shadows of doubt, of a past where she was just a girl without answers. Ahead was the forge of truth. There would be no mercy. Only fire.
The doors at the end of the corridor opened with a groan that echoed through the mountain. A gust of heat poured out like a beast breathing its warning.
The chamber was alive with fire.
Lava flowed in streams along the walls, casting molten light across the stone floor. At the center, a raised platform of obsidian and ember pulsated like a living heart. The Rite of Flame.
The council stood in a wide circle around the platform. Seraphine wasn't among them. But Elira could feel her presence like a curse—it lingered in the air, sharp as smoke.
The High Priestess lifted a staff wrapped in runes that glowed with inner fire. "Elira Flameborn. Daughter of the spark. Bearer of the Emberheart. Do you step forward willingly?"
Elira's voice didn't waver. "Yes."
"Then may the flames know your truth."
As she stepped onto the platform, the heat became unbearable. Sweat slicked her back, but she refused to flinch. The moment her feet met the center of the rune circle, the fire in the room surged.
The torches flared. The lava bubbled. And the Emberheart at her chest exploded with light.
A roar of wind blasted through the chamber as fire rose in a vortex around her, flames licking the air like hungry serpents. She was in the eye of a storm of flame.
Her vision blurred.
And then—
She was no longer in the chamber.
---
She stood in a realm of ash and skyfire. The air shimmered with heat and echoes. Above her, the sky cracked open with firestorms. Beneath her feet, blackened earth pulsed with ancient energy.
A voice boomed, neither male nor female, older than the stars:
"You carry the Emberheart. But do you carry the flame?"
"I don't understand," she said.
A figure appeared—tall, cloaked in flames, its face a swirling ember. It stretched a hand toward her. "Then learn. Show us your truth. Light... or consume."
Suddenly, Elira was thrown backward. She slammed against a wall that didn't exist. Pain screamed in her ribs, but she stood.
Three doors materialized before her.
The Door of Light. The Door of Ash. The Door of Flame.
Each pulsed with different energy. The voice thundered again:
"Choose."
She walked to the Door of Flame.
No hesitation.
It burst open with searing light.
Inside, a battlefield.
Dozens of warriors—all burned or burning—fought. Screams filled the air. In the center, a girl with hair of black fire stood, blood on her hands.
Seraphine.
Elira blinked. No. It wasn't Seraphine.
It was her.
A future version.
She was power incarnate, but her eyes—her eyes were hollow. Empty. A queen forged by war... but one who had lost everything.
"No!" Elira shouted. "That's not who I want to be!"
The future Elira turned slowly. "Power doesn't ask who you want to be. It makes you who you must become."
The battlefield collapsed.
The next instant, she stood again in the real chamber, screaming as flame wrapped around her like chains.
The fire was in her lungs, her bones.
And yet—
She did not burn.
The chains of flame burst outward, shattering like glass.
Elira fell to her knees, gasping—but alive.
The fire around her calmed. It bowed.
The High Priestess stepped forward, astonished. "The Emberheart accepts you."
A breath of silence.
Then the council began to murmur. One elder collapsed in shock. Another crossed themselves in awe.
Elira stood slowly, the fire now flowing beneath her skin like blood. Her hair lifted in the heatless breeze. Her eyes glowed like twin embers.
She had changed.
She was no longer just a bearer of power. She was the flame.
And far above, hidden in the shadows of the rafters, Seraphine watched.
Her lips curled into a wicked smile.
"She thinks this makes her worthy?" she whispered to herself.
Behind her, another figure emerged from the dark. A man. Pale eyes. Cruel mouth.
"We move at dusk," he said.
Seraphine nodded. "Let's burn her from the inside out."
---
But in the depths of the chamber, the flames whispered secrets.
Something ancient stirred beneath the obsidian floor—a presence awakened by Elira's fire. It slithered unseen, older than prophecy, older than blood.
In her sleep that night, Elira dreamed of dragons.
No. One dragon.
Buried beneath the mountain. Chained. Waiting.
And it called her name.