The cauldron roared like a living thing.Flames of violet and gold licked the iron rim, swallowing the herbs Solen had tossed inside. The air thickened with heat and the metallic scent of spirit essence.
Aren stood at the edge of the circle, sweat running down his spine, watching as the alchemist moved with impossible precision. Every motion of Solen's hands traced glowing sigils in the air that sank into the fire and changed its color—blue, then silver, then white.
"Alchemy," Solen said without looking up, "is conversation. The ingredients speak, the flame listens, and the alchemist persuades them to agree."
Mira sat on a shelf, tail flicking. "He says that every time. The fire never agrees."
The old man smirked. "It listens more often than you think." He dropped the final fragment—the Heartscale—into the mix. The cauldron flared white-hot, blinding. The workshop trembled; jars rattled and rolled across the tables.
Aren shielded his eyes. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"If it weren't, we'd already be ash." Solen's voice was calm. "Now—breathe with it. Channel the same rhythm as your Ember Cycle. The pill must recognize your Qi or it will reject you."
Aren closed his eyes and began to breathe, slow and steady. The rhythm of the fire matched the rhythm of his pulse. He could feel the flames responding—dancing with his breath. The pendant at his chest warmed, pulsing in time.
Then, abruptly, the cauldron went still. The light dimmed to a faint orange glow. Solen reached in with a pair of tongs and lifted a single pill the color of molten amber.
"The Ember Root Pill," he murmured. "One dose. Enough to mend your channels, if your body survives it."
He set it on a tray before Aren. "Eat."
Aren hesitated for only a moment, then took the pill. The taste was bitter metal and ash.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then his body ignited from the inside.
Fire surged through his veins. His meridians screamed, light racing beneath his skin like lightning trapped in glass. He doubled over, choking. The pendant burned against his chest.
Mira leapt down, eyes wide. "Solen—"
"Don't touch him!" the old man barked. "The pill's working—it's forcing the curse to reveal itself!"
Aren gasped, vision fracturing. The workshop around him melted into streaks of light. He saw a vast sky of black clouds and golden chains stretching forever. Beneath him, his own shadow moved—no longer his shape, but a creature of flame bound in shackles.
Condemned, a voice thundered. Each spark you light defies the law. Each breath invites judgment.
"I didn't ask for your law," Aren growled through clenched teeth. "And I don't follow it."
The chains snapped toward him, burning symbols carving across his chest. The pain was beyond fire—cold, absolute. He screamed, and the world shattered.
When he woke, the workshop was in ruins. Half the shelves were scorched black. Mira crouched beside him, fur singed, tail twitching irritably.
"You explode nicely," she muttered. "Remind me never to nap while you cultivate."
Aren sat up slowly. His entire body ached, but there was power thrumming beneath the pain. His Qi flowed smoothly, strong and steady.
Solen stood a few steps away, studying him. "You lived. Good."
Aren managed a hoarse laugh. "Barely."
"Look at your chest."
He glanced down—and froze.
A dark sigil now sprawled over his sternum, faintly glowing red. A circle crossed by nine jagged lines, each pulsing with light. It felt… alive, like it was breathing with him.
Mira's ears flattened. "That's the Mark of Heaven. The curse made visible."
"What does it mean?" Aren asked quietly.
Solen's expression was grave. "It means the Heavens have acknowledged you. You're no longer just cursed—you're noticed. And that notice comes with watchers."
A tremor passed through the air—soft at first, then heavier, colder. The candles flickered. A chill spread that no fire could banish.
Mira's fur bristled. "Too late. It's already here."
Solen turned toward the door. The iron lock melted without heat, running like wax. A shape stepped through the threshold—tall, shrouded in black mist, face hidden behind a mask of silver. Its presence pressed down on the room like a mountain.
Aren's heartbeat spiked. "What is that?"
"The first of the Condemned Spirits," Solen said grimly. "Sent to test your defiance."
The figure raised a hand. The air twisted; shards of glass and metal lifted from the floor, spinning toward Aren.
He moved without thinking, flame bursting from his palms. The shards turned to ash midair, but the spirit was already gone—reappearing behind him. A blow like solid stone struck his back, hurling him across the room. He crashed through a shelf, vials shattering around him.
"Aren!" Mira darted between them, fur blazing like gold. She leapt, her form expanding into a streak of fire, colliding with the spirit. The impact lit the room like a forge.
Solen slammed his palm to the floor, activating an array. Blue runes surged outward, trapping the creature in a ring of light. "Do it now, boy! Burn the mark—answer Heaven's gaze with your own flame!"
Aren forced himself up. The mark on his chest pulsed, hot and furious. He reached inside himself and pulled, dragging every drop of Qi he could find into that single burning point.
The mark flared—red to gold, gold to white.
A roar filled the workshop, half flame, half voice. The spirit staggered, its silver mask cracking. Aren thrust both hands forward, screaming.
Fire erupted—pure, blinding, sovereign.
When the light faded, the spirit was gone. Nothing remained but a scorch mark in the shape of wings on the far wall.
Aren collapsed to his knees, trembling. The mark on his chest dimmed, still faintly glowing.
Solen exhaled, lowering his hand. "You've officially declared war on Heaven," he said quietly.
Mira looked at Aren, then at the burned wall, and grinned. "About time."
Aren laughed once, breathless. "Then let's make sure they regret noticing me."
End of Chapter 8 – Mark of Heaven