The scroll lay across Torian's lap, its iron frame heavy even when unrolled. The ancient Flamewright
script shimmered faintly under firelight, curling symbols of heat, will, and cost. The words weren't
just instruction—they were warning.
Let the bearer burn freely, or not at all.
Skarn lay across the mouth of the cave they had claimed for shelter, his massive form
blocking the wind. Rain whispered outside, but within, only the crackling of the
campfire and the soft hum of the ember in Torian's chest filled the space.
He read the scroll again.
And again.
Every time, the meaning became clearer—and heavier. The Bonding Flame wasn't
about power. It was about surrender. About letting the ember decide if you were worthy
to carry it permanently. The ritual would seal it into his flesh, not like a parasite, but like
a brand of purpose.
If he failed, the ember would consume him from the inside. Or worse—it might flee and
leave him hollow, like the one below.
He set the scroll aside and stood.
"I need obsidian dust, iron ore, and flame-hardened sap," he murmured.
Skarn tilted his head.
"Don't look at me like that," Torian said. "I'm not doing it to chase power. I'm doing it to
survive."The beast grunted softly but stood. He walked toward the cave's rear and began
sniffing along the wall. Torian watched as Skarn paused, claws raking across the rock.
Then, with one swift motion, he smashed his paw into the stone. Cracks split down,
revealing veins of glinting black and rust-colored mineral.
Torian smiled. "That's one."
They spent the next day gathering the rest.
The sap came from trees at the edge of the charred forest—twisted pines with bark
that peeled like slate. Their inner resin was thick and dark red, hardening to a crystal
sheen when touched by fire. Torian used his blade to tap the trunks gently and
collected what he could.
The obsidian dust came from the collapse site, where the forge-city had partially risen.
Skarn led him to a wind-carved outcrop, its surface flaking under the pressure of his
claws. Torian ground it fine between stones, coughing as the black grit puffed into the
air.
By nightfall, he had the three.
He built the fire in silence.
Not with kindling.
But with intention.
Twelve stones, marked with the spiral, formed a circle. At its center, Torian placed the
ingredients: iron, dust, and sap, mixed into a crude paste and packed into a small bowl-
shaped crater he dug by hand.
Skarn remained just outside the ring, lying still but never blinking.
Torian sat at the edge, shirtless now, the spiral mark on his hand bare and glowing
faintly.
He pressed both palms together.And whispered, "I don't demand anything. I only ask to be made whole."
The fire did not answer.
He dipped his fingers into the mixture—thick, metallic, sticky with the scent of blood
and ash.
He spread it over the spiral.
Then sat back.
The air inside the circle changed.
Heat rose—but not from the fire.
From the ember itself.
It expanded in his chest, pulsing against his ribs like a second heart, pushing outward
until he gasped. His vision blurred. The spiral on his hand flared, molten lines crawling
across his wrist, up his arm, across his shoulder.
And then the pain began.
Not sharp.
Deep.
Like his bones were being reshaped. Like his blood was being rewritten.
He cried out once—then bit down hard on his knuckle to muffle the second scream.
The fire rose around him in a vortex.
The cave vanished.
⸻He stood in a chamber of smoke and mirrors again.
Only this time, there were no reflections.
Only one figure ahead.
Tall.
Wrapped in scorched armor. A spiral burned into his chest, leaking golden fire down his sides like
veins torn open.
The Hollow Flame.
But not fully.
A memory. A warning.
"You don't have to suffer," the voice said.
It was Torian's voice.
Older.
"You don't have to bleed. You don't have to lose everything."
The figure raised a hand.
In it was fire—pure, silent, coiled like a serpent.
"You can command it now. Take it. Be more than they were."
Torian stepped back. "I'm not like you."
"You're exactly like me."
"I didn't come here for power."
"Everyone does.""I came to earn it."
The figure's smile cracked like broken stone.
"Then let it burn."
The fire in the figure's hand leapt at Torian, wrapping around his body, searing into his
skin.
He fell to his knees.
Saw visions flash past his eyes.
A woman burning beside her child.
A tower crumbling as flame exploded from its base.
Skarn, wounded, calling out in a voice that wasn't his.
Then—
Stillness.
And one final image:
Torian standing alone, holding fire—but no face.
He screamed.
And reached inward.
Not to the fire.
To himself.
To memory.His father's voice.
Skarn's breath.
The sword he'd dug from rubble.
The oath he made in silence.
The ember pulled back.
The pain lessened.
The fire in the circle fell.
⸻
Torian woke coughing, collapsed in ash, his arm streaked with molten gold and black.
The spiral mark now pulsed beneath his skin, not on it.
It was part of him.
Not a symbol.
A bond.
Skarn rushed to him, sniffing urgently, nosing his chest.
"I'm alright," Torian whispered, reaching up.
The beast pressed his paw to Torian's marked hand.
Their eyes met.
No words.
Only understanding.The ember had accepted him.
And now, when he reached for it—
He felt it stir.
Not wildly.
But attentively.
Waiting.
⸻
Later that night, as the wind calmed and the stars broke through the clouded sky, Torian stood at
the cliff's edge and opened his palm.
A flame rose.
Small.
Controlled.
Alive.
He shaped it into a sphere, then a line, then a sword's edge.
Not perfect.
But real.
He let it fade and looked out toward the mountains beyond.
Wherever the Hollow Flame waited, he would feel this.
The bonding had begun.
And the fire no longer walked beside him.It walked within.