Adrien felt the weight of the Headmaster's words settle like fog in his chest—thick, suffocating, and impossible to ignore. A choice. The light or the shadows. It wasn't just a metaphor here—it was a tangible path, woven into the very bricks and bones of Nightshade Academy.
The Headmaster opened the ancient tome, its pages emitting a faint, smoky glow as if they remembered being burned once and had chosen to smolder forevermore. Strange symbols writhed on the parchment, rearranging themselves into something Adrien couldn't read—but somehow understood. The language of dragons, his blood whispered. The Soul-Flame script.
"You feel it, don't you?" the Headmaster asked, eyes gleaming with an intensity that bordered on reverence. "The magic inside you recognizing its reflection in this text."
Adrien nodded slowly. "It's like the words are... alive."
The Headmaster shut the book with a soft thud. "That is because they are. Magic, here, is not studied. It is awakened. This—" he gestured around the chamber "—is where those worthy of the legacy are tempered. But not everyone survives the forging."
Adrien opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but the words caught in his throat.
"You've already drawn the attention of many," the Headmaster continued. "The Obsidian Hand is only one of several interested parties. Some see your existence as prophecy fulfilled. Others... as a threat to their hold on the balance of power."
A cold realization crept into Adrien's bones. He wasn't just being taught. He was being watched.
"Tonight," the Headmaster said, stepping closer, "you'll be granted access to the Vault of Embers beneath the East Tower. There, you will find the Echo Crucible. It reacts only to dragon-blooded souls. If you are who we believe you are, it will awaken what lies dormant within you… or consume you in the process."
"Consume me?" Adrien echoed, disbelief and fear curling in his gut.
"It is tradition," the Headmaster said, his voice calm, almost indifferent. "And more importantly, it is necessary. The academy cannot protect you unless you first understand the full extent of what you are."
Adrien hesitated. "And if I refuse?"
The Headmaster gave a soft chuckle, one that held no warmth. "You won't."
Later that night, beneath the East Tower, Adrien stood alone before a jagged stone door veined with molten gold. It pulsed faintly in the darkness like a heart. As he approached, the Dragonheart Gem, now on a pendant around his neck, glowed in response. The door split down the middle, stone groaning open with reluctant power.
Beyond lay the Vault of Embers.
It was cavernous and quiet, filled with the smell of scorched earth and old power. In its center stood the Echo Crucible—a stone basin brimming with liquid flame, its surface undisturbed, its glow hypnotic. Carvings of dragons spiraled along the walls, eyes made of crystal watching him from every direction.
Kaelen had offered to sneak in with him, of course, but Adrien had refused. This was something he had to face alone.
As he stepped forward, the Crucible shimmered and pulsed, reacting to his presence. Flames flickered upward, forming shapes—wings, claws, a snarling draconic maw—all of it shifting and collapsing back into the liquid fire.
"You must offer it your essence," came a voice. The Headmaster? No—it came from within the flame.
Adrien reached toward the Crucible, heart pounding. As his fingers brushed the surface, searing heat coursed through him, not burning his skin but unraveling his thoughts. Visions assaulted his mind—ancient dragons soaring over obsidian mountains, golden cities reduced to ash, a great betrayal cloaked in fire and shadows.
He saw himself—not himself, but someone who looked like him—crowned in fire, standing atop a ruined tower, holding a blade made of soul-flame. And beside him, a girl with silver hair and burning eyes… and behind them, war.
The Crucible flared violently, rejecting something, then accepting. The room vanished.
He awoke on the stone floor, chest heaving. The Dragonheart Gem now shimmered with threads of deep crimson and bright gold. Around him, symbols had appeared—burned into the stone in a perfect circle. He wasn't sure if it was hours or mere minutes later. But something had changed. He was changed.
From the shadows at the edge of the chamber, the Headmaster emerged. He looked pleased, but wary.
"You survived," he said simply. "And now... they will come for you in earnest."
"Who?" Adrien asked, forcing himself to stand.
"The Obsidian Hand. Others still cloaked in mystery. Some wish to control you, others to destroy you, and a few… to help you, if you're wise enough to find them. You've just crossed the threshold into a war as old as magic itself, Dragon Prince. Nightshade is no longer your shelter. It is your battlefield."
Adrien didn't speak. His hands glowed faintly, pulsing with the Crucible's energy. He felt stronger, more whole—like he was finally aligned with something ancient and undeniable inside him.
As they left the Vault together, the shadows seemed to close in behind them like a secret.
Far above them, in the East Tower's highest spire, a figure watched through a cracked mirror—eyes reflecting the Crucible's fire. "The flame has awakened," the figure whispered. "The line has returned. It begins anew."