The next morning dawned gray and wet, a cold drizzle clinging to the cobblestones of Greystead. Kieran stood alone beneath the overhang outside Arkwyn's estate, watching the rain fall in slow, misty sheets. It hissed softly where it struck the blade strapped across his back. The air smelled of wet stone and sodden ash.
Despite the chill, he felt warm inside. Warmer than he had any right to. The ember that had taken root in him since the stone's awakening had not dimmed. If anything, it was clearer now—sharpened, refined, like coals stoked in a smith's forge.
He touched his chest briefly, remembering the heat that had surged through him when the prophecy had absorbed into his skin. The fire had not burned him. It had accepted him, welcomed him, baptized him in a power ancient and undeniable. He could feel it pulsing through him now—waiting, listening.
Maera found him there a short while later. Her hair was pulled tightly beneath a hood, her expression calm and measured. "Arkwyn's sent word ahead. We'll have an escort out of Greystead by midday."
Kieran nodded. "Thank you."
She studied him for a long moment. "You've changed. Since that night. Since... everything that's happened. I can see it in your eyes—in the way you carry yourself. You're not the same boy who stood beside me in the manor halls."
"I know," he said quietly. "I feel it too."
They left shortly after, with horses provided by Lord Arkwyn and cloaks to guard against the weather. Before departing, Maera had thanked Arkwyn for his generosity and kindness, and Kieran had quietly echoed his gratitude. Despite the grief shadowing their faces, hospitality had not gone unnoticed.
The ride through Greystead was slow and quiet. Townsfolk watched them from behind shuttered windows and awnings, whispers trailing after them like ghosts.
Kieran tried not to meet their eyes. He didn't know whether they saw a survivor or a failure.
Ysolde rode beside him, her hood drawn low, her gaze distant. But as they neared the southern gate, she spoke softly. "Do you think the academy will know what happened at Ashveil? About the attack?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. But we live in a world of magic. News can travel faster than we think—through spells, whispers, or worse. The academy may already know more than we do. Still... I don't think this happened by chance."
Maera, just ahead, gave a small laugh. "Oh, nothing in this world worth its fire happens by chance. The gods have a way of dropping trials on the shoulders of the stubborn. Lucky for you, your father made stubbornness a family trait."
They all chuckled, even Ysolde, though the sound was thin.
The miles passed beneath them as the road turned from cobbled streets to muddy lanes and winding trails. During the long hours in the saddle, Kieran took to practicing his focus and mana control. He would close his eyes and breathe deeply, drawing his awareness inward to that flickering ember he now carried. It responded to his intent like a living flame—surging with his excitement, dimming with distraction.
The sensation was strange, as if he were breathing through a second set of lungs made of fire and thought. Sometimes the mana flowed smoothly, a warm stream running beneath his skin. Other times it twisted and sputtered, like a candle struggling against the wind. His fingers tingled, his muscles tensed, and the heat would build too fast, forcing him to cut off the flow before it burned through his control.
There were moments of clarity—when the world narrowed to just him, the saddle beneath him, and the ember pulsing like a second heart. In those brief moments, he felt connected to something greater, like the fire within him answered to ancient rhythms older than the kingdom itself. He tried to stretch the moments longer each time, focusing not just on sensing the mana, but on guiding it through his body—starting from his core, sending it through the pathways of his arms and legs like molten metal through a forge mold.
When he concentrated deeply, he could sense blockages in those channels, knots of tension where the mana caught or coiled up. It felt like trying to guide a stream through a riverbed filled with stones. Sometimes, it flared wildly, slipping past his control and sparking heat behind his eyes or into his fingertips until he gasped and had to let go. Other times, it pooled too slowly, reluctant to move, like stubborn coals needing air.
He practiced breathing techniques, visualizing the ember's heat flowing like liquid fire along threads of thought and will. When it worked, it felt like a song sung in perfect harmony with his heartbeat—a rhythm of warmth and control. When it failed, it left him aching and frustrated, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air.
Still, the fire taught him patience. And with every attempt, every push against his own limitations, he learned a little more about the shape of the power inside him—and the man he might become if he could master it.
Still, each attempt taught him something new. He learned to regulate his breathing, to match his heartbeat to the mana's pulse, to soothe the wild edges of the flame with intent rather than force. Yet reaching harmony with raging flames was no easy feat. The fire inside him was temperamental—vivid and alive, never still. It snarled at constraint, testing his focus and threatening to consume his will with each misstep. It was not brute strength the fire demanded, but a delicate, unyielding equilibrium. It was like trying to dance with a storm, knowing one wrong step could sear him from the inside out.
He experimented silently, channeling small amounts of mana to his fingertips, letting it swirl just beneath the skin. The magic thrummed like a heartbeat, waiting to be shaped. It took all his concentration to maintain the flow without letting it slip or surge out of control. More than once, he nearly singed his gloves.
Each hour, he grew a little steadier, learning to hold the ember steady, to breathe with it, to listen.
By dusk, they reached the inn at Harthvale—one of the last safe stops before entering the treacherous stretch leading to the capital. They settled into a quiet room, grateful for warm food and clean beds. It didn't take long for Maera and Ysolde to fall asleep, their exhaustion catching up to them as soon as they lay down.
But Kieran could not sleep.
He sat by the hearth, turning his father's sword over in his hands. In the firelight, the etched crest of House Ashveil gleamed faintly. He held it close, and for a moment, he thought he could feel the ember inside him stir in response.
Outside, the storm deepened. And within him, the fire waited—for trials, for reckoning, for the legacy he had yet to claim.