The Ashbound Ascents were quieter than usual.
That alone made them dangerous.
Aren climbed the stone steps in steady silence, each footfall measured, controlled. The volcanic slope radiated heat through the thin soles of his boots, not enough to burn, but enough to remind the body where it stood. Above him, jagged obsidian spires rose like broken teeth, their edges catching the morning light in dull crimson reflections.
This was not a place meant for children.
Here, boys and girls were brought at the age of five and trained until their bodies either adapted—or failed. Some were carried down on stretchers. Others walked away under their own strength, never to return.
Most failed.
Aren had seen it happen.
He reached the upper terraces without breaking his breathing rhythm. The stone platforms opened into a wide circular expanse, scorched black by years of flame essence release and controlled impact. At its center, six children already stood in formation.
All of them were older than him.
Some by years.
Their stances were disciplined. Their expressions were guarded. None of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
Every one of them knew why Aren Pyranthir had been summoned alongside them today.
He was the youngest.
And the problem.
"Line," the instructor ordered.
The command cracked through the air with restrained authority. They obeyed instantly, adjusting positions without hesitation.
The man walked before them, hands clasped behind his back. Flame essence coiled beneath his skin, restrained but unmistakable, like a blade held inches from the throat. His gaze passed over each child carefully—posture, breathing, weight distribution—before lingering on Aren for half a breath longer.
"Today," the instructor said, "you will demonstrate foundation."
No cheers followed.
No protests.
Foundation mattered more than techniques. Anyone could be taught to swing a blade or release flame. Few could bear power without letting it distort them.
"Begin."
They moved.
Stances snapped into place. Breathing synchronized. Essence stirred beneath skin and bone as the air itself seemed to tighten. Even at this early stage, the difference between bloodline heirs and outer disciples was unmistakable.
Aren felt it immediately.
The others carried their strength like weight—dense, heavy, pressing outward as if daring the world to push back. It made them impressive. Intimidating.
Aren carried it like alignment.
Contained. Focused.
The first strike came from his left. A boy two years older lunged forward, shoulders broader, flame flickering visibly around his fists. The attack was direct, confident, meant to overwhelm through force alone.
Aren stepped inside the arc.
He turned his wrist, shifted his center of gravity, and redirected the force with minimal contact. No collision. No wasted motion.
Just correction.
The boy stumbled, surprised, but recovered quickly and struck again—harder this time, anger bleeding into the technique.
Aren yielded half a step, adjusted his footing, and returned the pressure through the opponent's core.
The boy hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
Silence rippled across the terrace.
"Again," the instructor said.
Another opponent stepped forward. Then another.
Aren did not overpower them. He didn't need to. He let them commit first, let their intent sharpen, then dismantled it piece by piece. A shift of balance. A disrupted breath. A redirected strike.
By the fourth exchange, irritation crept in.
By the fifth, fear.
The last boy hesitated before striking. His stance wavered, confidence cracking under pressure he did not understand.
"Move," the instructor snapped.
The boy lunged.
Aren sidestepped and ended it with a controlled strike to the sternum—precise, restrained, just enough to steal breath without causing damage.
The boy collapsed to his knees, gasping.
"Enough," the instructor said.
He turned to Aren. "You're refining instead of expanding."
"Yes," Aren replied calmly.
"Why?"
"Expansion is obvious," Aren said. "Refinement lasts."
The instructor studied him for a long moment. "You're ten."
"I won't be forever."
A murmur spread among the watching attendants. Not approval. Unease.
The instructor exhaled slowly. "Return to the estate."
Aren bowed once and left without hesitation.
—
Pyrelorne felt heavier than before.
Eyes followed him openly now. Servants paused mid-step. Guards straightened. Even junior knights watched him pass—not in reverence.
In assessment.
At the Flamehold gates, Aren stopped.
Two elite knights stood watch, unmoving as statues. Their presence sealed the inner estate like a final lock—silent, absolute. One of them shifted his gaze downward.
Just briefly.
It was enough.
Aren met the knight's eyes.
The pressure descended immediately. Not hostile—evaluative. Like standing beneath a mountain and realizing it was aware of you.
Aren held the gaze.
The knight looked away first.
Aren continued inside.
That night, he sat alone in his chamber, flame essence circulating through carefully controlled channels. Each cycle was precise. Restrained. Deliberate.
Outside, the empire slept uneasily.
Tomorrow, the Crown would look more closely.
And far beyond Pyrelorne, forces vastly larger than a single house continued to move.
Aren opened his eyes.
The weight was already there.
He welcomed it