The palace bell chimed six times as dawn broke over the high towers, casting a pale orange glow across the city.
But inside the Temple of Embers, shadows still clung to everything.
Elara stood beside the High Priest on the raised dais, framed by golden torches
Behind them sat the sacred stone, the very same ancient relic that had chosen her now appearing dormant, though veined with a subtle light that pulsed like a quiet heartbeat.
Hundreds filled the grand hall: nobles in their finest silks, soldiers in polished armor, priests, courtiers, and now, the hopeful contenders.
Thirty names had been drawn. Thirty individuals who believed they might be chosen by the flame.
The Empress sat in the high gallery, her expression unreadable. Isla was at her side, lips tight, her dress impeccably flawless.
Isla didn't step forward as a contender.
Whispers rippled through the hushed corners: Why wasn't Isla among them? Hadn't she trained her whole life for this moment? But those familiar with court gossip knew the truth Isla had never been submitted for the draw.
It was said the Empress refused to let her risk the humiliation of rejection, especially not after what happened with Elara.
And Isla? Her pride simply wouldn't allow it either.
Elara remained silent, yet her presence was louder than any drum.
One by one, the contenders stepped forward.
Each placed a hand on the stone.
Each offered a silent prayer.
Each was met only with silence.
Until the twelfth contender.
A girl no older than sixteen. Pale, with wide, hopeful eyes. A baker's daughter, by all accounts.
She placed her hand on the stone.
It flickered.
Gasps rippled through the hushed chamber.
The Empress sat straighter, her attention now fully engaged.
The stone pulsed faintly once, then faded back into its quiet state.
The High Priest's brows furrowed. He leaned toward Elara. "It stirred. What does it mean?"
Elara answered without looking away from the stone. "It means the flame is watching. But not choosing."
The trials continued.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Then, the thirtieth.
A boy from the outer provinces, trembling visibly as he approached. He didn't speak, just tentatively placed his hand against the stone.
Nothing.
It was done.
Or at least, it should have been.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber, forcefully snuffing out two torches, plunging a section of the hall into deeper shadow.
Whispers rose again.
Then, from the back of the hall, someone moved.
Not a noble.
Not a priest.
It was Kael.
Prince of Eldoria.
The crowd stirred uneasily. The High Priest raised a hand, attempting to stop him.
"You were not called."
"I do not need to be called," Kael replied, his voice quiet but utterly certain. "The flame knows what it wants."
He walked directly to the dais.
The guards hesitated, unsure what to do.
The Empress leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him.
Kael placed his hand on the stone.
A collective breath was held.
Then, light.
Not just a glow, but a brilliant flare.
Fire danced up his arm, wrapping around him.
The crowd gasped audibly. The priests instinctively stepped back. The stone blazed with an intensity it hadn't shown since Elara's own choosing.
And then, just as suddenly, it dimmed.
Elara stepped forward, her eyes locked on Kael's.
"You forced it, didn't you?"
Kael met her gaze without flinching. "No. I dared it. There's a difference."
The High Priest, overwhelmed, fell to his knees.
"The flame... it has answered!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with awe.
Elara turned slowly, facing the stunned crowd.
"No," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "It has reacted. But it has not chosen."
The hall rippled with uncertainty, torn between the High Priest's declaration and Elara's firm denial.
The Empress rose, a faint, calculating curl on her lips.
"Then perhaps we should let the flame decide in time. Side by side."
And suddenly, it wasn't just Elara who stood touched by fire.
It was Kael too.