Sahrak stepped toward a smaller, dust-covered pedestal near the altar. He lifted a metal plate from its top and slowly turned it over to reveal a blackened crystal bowl, cracked at the edges—once beautiful, now heavy with scorch marks and time.“The source of a flameborn’s strength,” Sahrak said softly. “The core of our blood… as well as the truth of our origin.”Kaelen stared at it. “Mhm. Okay. You’re gonna have to explain that one a little simpler,” he said, raising his eyebrows and making little circle motions with his fingers. “Because I’m like... Definitely lost.”Sahrak didn’t smile this time. “A small, undying flame,” he said.The room suddenly felt warmer. Like the words themselves had heat. “It doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t fade. It just burns—quietly, constantly, like the heartbeat of the first flameborn.”“How did it get here?” Kaelen asked.“No one knows,” Sahrak answered with a grave voice. “The only sure thing is that it's sacred and it's alive. And for those with the right p

“Here.”Zaria’s voice was barely above a whisper. The dry and restless wind tugged at her scarf, like it was trying to pull her back from remembering.“This is exactly where he… where he put me on the horse,” she said as she glued her eyes to the dust-scored ground beneath her. “Where he… told me to ride. To not look back.”Amara stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find him, Zaria,” she gently said, but her voice had steel under the softness. “We will.”Behind them, Saltana lingered like a shadow—silent, with parted lips like she wanted to say something but didn’t know which emotion to commit to. Regret? Guilt? Hope?The old tower loomed above them, battered and slouched like a drunk too proud to fall. Cracks split its stone spine. Its crown was half gone, blown off by storms or time or something worse. It looked dead. But the kind of dead that still twitched.Four guards stood spaced out around the base, looking around the barren expanse of desert. Every gust of w

Sahen’s eyes twitched—not wide with fear, but sharpened with curiosity. And then came that wide and toothy grin that was far too pleased for someone about to get double-teamed.“Well,” he muttered with a flick of his wrist, “that explains a few things…”With a slow, almost theatrical pull, he drew the curved dagger from the sheath at his hip. In an instant, it hissed with black fire, spiraling up the blade like smoke being sucked into the night. Another flick of his other hand, and the second dagger followed, its edge licking with the same eerie, hungry flame.Across from him, Amara let out a dry, almost amused chuckle. “Heh… What a happy miscalculation.”She raised her mallet overhead, and in a flash, a surge of golden flame erupted from the head, dancing wild and hot, while the handle beneath her grip remained untouched with controlled chaos. Just like her.“Vael…” she grinned. “We’ll take him together.”Vael nodded without a word. His shoulders rolled back. His stance sank low. And

Kaelen’s eyes flew open like someone yanked him out of a dream with a rope. He jerked forward, clutching his chest with his hands, gasping—deep and guttural with panicked breaths.“What the—what in the name of the dessert was that?” He choked out, as his shoulders trembled under invisible weight.Sahrak stepped in quietly and calmly without flinching, and placed a steadying hand on Kaelen’s shoulder—like you would to ground a man teetering on the edge of a cliff.“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re alright. Just breathe through it. Let it pass.”But then something strange—something subtle—caught in the corner of Sahrak’s eye.The altar flame.It flared.Just for a second, it went from its calm golden glow into a sharp, fierce blue—a cold flame that shouldn't exist in a place so buried in warmth. It crackled silently, like it was whispering a secret only the desert could understand. Then, just as quickly, it retreated back into gold.Sahrak’s hand stilled. And for the first time in a long whi

The hood came down slow—like the man beneath it had all the time in the world to show his scars.And damn, did he wear them like medals from a war no one else survived?The man—Varohn—looked like he’d been chewed up by something meaner than time and spat back out just to finish what he'd started. His face was a walking battle map: a jagged scar carved from his temple, cutting through one brow, slashing past his sunken eye, and running down his cheek, halting just after his cracked lip like it had second thoughts about going farther.His skin was the color of ash left too long in the wind, and his eyes… they weren’t just dark. They were hollow—like something behind them had died a long time ago, and the rest of them just forgot to catch up. His posture wasn’t proud, or cocky, or even commanding. He leaned forward, head tilted just enough to suggest exhaustion, but his presence buzzed with a quiet, venomous threat—like someone who had learned how to kill not from training, but from ha