Kael couldn't scream—the fire filled his mouth, his ears, his eyes. The world blazed around him, yet he didn't burn.
He stood in a place that wasn't earth, sky, or dream. Just flame. Endless, shifting, whispering.
"You seek a throne born of ash," the voice echoed, everywhere and nowhere. "But fire obeys only strength."
Images flashed: A warrior on a battlefield of cinders. A crown melting in molten gold. A boy, alone, with fire in his hands and fear in his heart.
Kael fell to his knees. "I didn't ask for this," he whispered.
"And yet, you were chosen."
A shadow stepped from the fire. It wore Kael's face—but older, crueler. Its eyes burned white.
"You'll become me," the echo said. "Or you'll die trying."
Kael stood. "Then I'll choose a different path."
The fire pulsed. Around him, the realm shifted.
Suddenly—he was back.
The Emberroot's flame now circled him, a shield of glowing orange and gold. The Watchers froze at the edge of the glade, recoiling.
Mira rushed to his side. "You passed?"
Kael nodded, his voice hoarse. "I think... I survived."
From behind the trees, more movement stirred.
"Then we run again," Mira said.
Kael looked at the flame dancing on his palm.
"No," he said. "This time, we fight."