The capital of Vandor never slept. Even at night, its marble towers glowed like silver, and the streets shimmered under the soft hum of mana crystals. But tonight, the glow was brighter, the Grand Tournament was about to begin, and the kingdom was alive with noise and fire.
In a quiet alley near the southern gate, a man adjusted the bandages around his arm and looked up at the great lights burning over the royal arena. His silver hair caught the glow for a second before the hood of his cloak fell back.
Lucen Vandor. The boy without light had returned, no longer a boy, and no longer without fire.
Before his journey to the capital, Lucen had been summoned to the royal court. He stood before King Alden Vandor himself, Amelia's father, and the ruler of the divine kingdom.
"Lucen," the king said, his voice deep and heavy. "You are of noble blood. Amelia has run away. You were chosen to be her bridegroom. You will find her and bring her back."
Lucen bowed slightly, but his tone was steady. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. But I can't."
The council chamber went silent. No one had ever refused a royal order so directly.
"I have something to prove first," Lucen continued. "I will find her when I'm worthy to stand beside her. Not as the weak son of Vandor, but as someone who earned his light."
The king watched him quietly for a moment. Then he said, "Then fight. Show me your worth in the tournament. If you rise above your brothers, then perhaps you will have the right to seek her."
Lucen nodded. "That's all I ask."
And so, the path was set. The fire he carried inside his chest would now face the test of gods and men alike.
The Grand Arena stood in the heart of the capital, a circular colossus of white stone and golden banners. Tens of thousands of people had gathered, their cheers shaking the sky. Each warrior would enter from the shadows, fight until one fell, and earn their place among legends.
Lucen walked through the underground tunnel, his steps steady. The air was hot from the torches that lined the walls. Every few paces, other warriors stood waiting, some praying, others sharpening their blades.
When his name was called, he stepped into the light.
"Lucen Vandor, fourth son of the House of Vandor!"
The crowd murmured, some surprised, some unimpressed."The weak one?" someone whispered."I thought he left the capital."He did. But he came back."
Lucen ignored it all. He lifted his sword, its black edge glinting faintly, and bowed toward the stands.
His first opponent was Sir Darion, a royal knight known for his iron armor and unbreakable defense.
When the bell rang, Darion charged forward like a wall of steel. Lucen dodged, sparks flying as the knight's blade scraped the ground. He countered with a single upward strike, flames flickering briefly around his sword.
Darion blocked easily. "Your fire's weak," he taunted.
Lucen said nothing. He shifted his stance, calm, patient. His red eyes glowed faintly as he whispered under his breath, "Ember Heart ignite."
A low hum filled the air. Heat rippled around him, the faint glow of red lines crawling up his arms.
Darion lunged again, faster this time. But Lucen moved like a shadow. One step. Two. A blur. The knight's armor cracked, and a second later, his sword was at Darion's throat.
The bell rang.
Winner: Lucen Vandor.
The crowd erupted. The "Dim Flame" had become a blaze.
The next morning, Lucen sat on the inn's balcony, watching the sunrise paint the city gold. His body ached, but the Ember Heart pulsed softly, alive, hungry, but calm.
He thought of Amelia then, the girl who had run from royalty, who had chosen her own path. He understood her now. Maybe too well.
A knock came on his door. A messenger bowed. "Lord Lucen, your next match will be in two days. The healers request your presence for a mana check."
Lucen nodded. "Tell them I'll be there."
When the messenger left, he whispered to himself, "Two days, huh? Enough to burn a little brighter."
He spent those days training by the river outside the city. His sword strikes cut through mist and light, his body moving with a rhythm learned through pain. The Ember Heart flickered and hissed, demanding release, but Lucen held it back.
He had learned control, the one thing his younger self never had.
The second fight came against Lira of Tenval, a graceful swordswoman known for her dancing style of combat. Her twin blades moved like ribbons of silver light.
The match began with a swirl of motion, Lucen's flames meeting her wind magic. Sparks burst across the field as the crowd gasped.
"You're holding back," she said mid-swing."I don't want to burn you," Lucen replied.
She laughed. "Then you'll lose."
Their blades clashed again and again, steel singing against steel. But Lira was fast, unpredictable. For a moment, she cut across his shoulder, drawing blood.
Lucen stepped back, blood dripping down his arm, and smiled."Good," he whispered.
He closed his eyes for half a second, and when they opened, his pupils had turned bright red. The Ember Heart blazed to life.
A wave of heat washed through the arena. Lira's blades melted slightly at the edge.
Lucen vanished — and in the blink of an eye, stood behind her. He placed his sword near her neck, the flame dimming instantly.
Winner: Lucen Vandor.
When she turned to look at him, she saw not a man fueled by pride, but one burdened by restraint. He bowed slightly. "Thank you for the fight."
She smiled faintly. "I hope you find what you're fighting for."
Two more days passed. Lucen spent his evenings sitting near the forge, repairing his blade, and speaking quietly to the blacksmiths. People had begun to recognize him.
Children would run up to him in the streets. "Sir Lucen! Show us the fire trick again!"
He'd smile faintly and summon a small harmless flame, letting them laugh as it flickered in his palm.
It was strange — for the first time, he didn't feel like a failure. But inside, he knew peace never lasted long in Vandor.
On the fourth night, as he prepared for sleep, a servant arrived with a message sealed by the royal crest.
Lucen broke it open.
"Your next opponent is the Second Sonm, Cael Vandor. Fight well, King Alden"
Lucen stared at the letter for a long time. So this was it.
He whispered to himself, "Brother against brother. Fire against fire."
The next two days felt like years. He trained under moonlight, the ember in his chest burning hotter than ever. Sometimes, when he struck the air with his sword, faint wings of red flame appeared behind his shoulders, for an instant, before fading.
It wasn't divine light. But it was something close.
On the morning of the next fight, as Lucen stood in the waiting hall, his hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from power trying to escape.
He closed his eyes and saw faces in the dark: his father and his brothers.
He took a deep breath. "I'll prove it. To all of you."
The bell rang.
The gate opened.
And as he stepped into the arena, the air around him shimmered with crimson light. His Ember Heart pulsed like a drum, steady, alive, unstoppable.
Above, the king watched from his golden throne, eyes unreadable.
Below, the crowd roared.
Lucen lifted his sword, flames curling around the blade. Across the field, his brother Cael Vandor stepped out, radiant in divine armor, his wings of light unfolding like dawn itself.
The announcer's voice shook the air: "Lucen Vandor, the Ember Flame! Versus Cael Vandor, the Blessed Light!"
The brothers met eyes across the field, two halves of the same family, two sides of the same fire.
And as the bell rang again, the flames of heaven and the fire of the earth collided in a roar that shook the sky.