The first thing Caelen felt as he approached Orynth Valis was the silence.
It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was an oppressive, heavy void that pressed against his skull, suffocating thought itself. The ember within him pulsed in slow, massive waves, each beat syncing with the invisible heartbeat of the dead city.
The ruins sprawled across the ashen landscape like the bones of a long-forgotten titan. Towering black spires, half-collapsed and cracked by time, loomed against the blood-red sky. Thorned vines crept over shattered statues, and the air smelled faintly of burnt iron.
And there, at the city's heart, he saw it.
The Door.
It was larger than he had imagined—towering fifty feet high, made of some dark, shimmering material that seemed to drink the light around it. Veins of crimson light pulsed faintly across its surface, matching the rhythm of his heart.
He staggered toward it, each step a monumental effort.
He barely noticed when Maerik appeared at his side.
"You made it," the old man said, his voice hollow.
Caelen blinked at him.
"You," he croaked. "You said—"
"I lied," Maerik said without remorse. "I had to. You wouldn't have come otherwise."
Caelen's fingers tightened around the dagger.
"You used me."
Maerik smiled bitterly.
"You were always going to be used. By me. By Sarn. By the Academy. By the Seeker. At least I tried to give you a choice."
The ground trembled beneath their feet.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the Door, bleeding faint trails of smoke.
"It's awakening," Maerik said. "And it's too late to stop it."
Caelen turned to him, fury rising in his chest.
"Then what was the point of any of this?"
Maerik met his gaze.
"The point," he said, "was to prepare you for what comes after."
⸻
Behind them, the sounds of battle erupted.
Sarn's forces had arrived.
Hundreds of black-clad Enforcers stormed the ruins, blades drawn, magic crackling at their fingertips.
But they weren't alone.
From the shattered alleys and broken plazas of Orynth Valis, other things rose to meet them—twisted remnants of the old world, creatures of ash and bone, drawn by the Door's awakening.
The two armies clashed in a storm of blood and fire.
Caelen barely registered it.
The Door was calling him.
He stumbled forward, the ember burning brighter and hotter with every step.
⸻
At the foot of the Door, she waited.
The Seeker.
Her crimson cloak billowed in the dry wind, her silver mask gleaming.
"You have come," she said, her voice reverent.
Caelen drew his dagger.
"I won't open it," he said.
"You already have," she whispered.
He frowned.
"What—"
The Seeker lifted her hand.
From beneath her cloak, she drew a shard of obsidian, black as night, etched with ancient runes.
"The ember within you is only half," she said. "This is the other."
She pressed the shard into the Door.
The veins of crimson light flared to blinding brilliance.
Caelen fell to his knees, screaming, as the ember within him responded.
His vision blurred.
He saw—
—an endless ocean of stars—
—a throne of bones atop a mountain of corpses—
—a figure of fire and shadow, its hands outstretched toward him—
"Who am I?" he gasped.
The Seeker knelt before him.
"You are Caelen Veyr," she said. "You are the last heir of Veythar, the God of Ruin."
⸻
The words shattered something inside him.
Memories that were not his own flooded his mind: battles fought under blood-red skies; cities reduced to ash with a single word; endless, screaming armies marching beneath his banner.
He staggered back.
"No," he rasped. "I'm not—I'm not—"
"You are," the Seeker said, smiling.
The Door split with a sound like the sky cracking open.
A blinding light poured forth.
And from within, something moved.
⸻
Sarn appeared then, riding a massive, black-scaled beast, his armor scorched and dented from the battle.
He leapt from the saddle, landing between Caelen and the Door.
"You fool!" he roared. "You were meant to seal it, not free it!"
Caelen barely heard him.
The thing inside the Door was awakening.
A vast, formless mass of fire, shadow, and bone.
A god.
His ancestor.
Veythar.
The God of Ruin.
⸻
Sarn drew a blade of pure white light.
"I should kill you where you stand," he snarled.
But even he hesitated, staring at the thing emerging from the Door.
"We can't fight it," he muttered. "Not alone."
He turned to Caelen, hate and desperation warring in his eyes.
"You have a choice," he said. "Submit—and we might survive. Rebel—and we are all damned."
Caelen rose to his feet.
The ember blazed within him, flooding him with strength.
He understood now.
He was not a pawn.
He was not a victim.
He was both key and lock.
⸻
"I choose neither," Caelen said.
He drove the dagger into his own chest.
⸻
The world exploded.
Light and shadow ripped outward from him in a tidal wave, shattering the ruins, scattering the Enforcers and the Seeker alike.
The God within the Door screamed—a sound that tore the heavens—and recoiled.
Caelen hovered in the air, suspended by the sheer force of the ember's unleashed power.
He saw Maerik, watching with grim satisfaction.
He saw Sarn, broken and bleeding, crawling away.
He saw the Seeker, weeping tears of blood, reaching for him.
And he saw Veythar, the God of Ruin, shackled once more.
But the cost was his soul.
He felt it unraveling, strand by strand, feeding into the seal he had reforged.
He was dying.
But he was winning.
⸻
A voice spoke inside his mind.
There is another way.
He saw a vision: a city reborn from ashes, a world free of gods and tyrants.
But it required a price.
A terrible price.
He could not simply die.
The duel platform cracked under the weight of power.
Magic hung heavy in the air, buzzing against Caelen's skin like a thousand angry wasps.
Across from him, Prince Valen stood poised, lightning crackling along his fingertips. Around them, the dueling arena filled with students leaning over balconies, whispering, betting, mocking.
The Master overseeing the duel — a wiry woman named Instructor Kaelle — raised a hand.
"First blood or unconsciousness," she said. "Any deliberate kill will result in immediate expulsion."
Her eyes flickered briefly to Caelen, lingering, as if doubting he'd survive even the first round.
Caelen tightened his grip on the ember tucked inside his uniform. It pulsed once, warm against his ribs.
I'm not ready.
You were never supposed to be ready, whispered a voice in his head. You were made to survive.
The flag dropped.
Valen struck first — a bolt of lightning aimed at Caelen's chest.
Pure instinct flared. Caelen flung himself sideways, the bolt missing him by inches and shattering the stone behind him.
Fast. He's too fast.
The crowd roared approval. Valen smirked, tossing a second, sharper bolt without warning.
This one Caelen didn't dodge.
Instead —
the ember within him flared.
Time slowed.
The bolt curved through the air like a lazy river, and Caelen saw it — the current of raw energy threading through it.
Without thinking, he reached out with his mind.
And touched it.
The lightning shattered into harmless sparks, dispersing like rain.
The stands went silent.
Valen's smirk froze.
Even Instructor Kaelle leaned forward, her mouth slightly open.
For a heartbeat, Caelen stood breathing hard, magic crackling at his fingertips — wild, uncontrolled, but alive.
Valen's face twisted. He growled something under his breath and raised both hands.
No more playing.
The sky overhead darkened, clouds spinning unnaturally fast.
The scent of ozone grew stronger — sharp, metallic, dangerous.
A storm was coming.
And it was aimed squarely at Caelen.
"Yield," Valen called. His voice was amplified by magic, booming across the arena. "You don't belong here, gutter rat. Crawl back to whatever hole you came from."
Caelen straightened.
"No."
He raised a hand.
And the ember answered.
Fwoom.
Fire exploded from his palm — not flames, not heat, but raw force, pushing Valen back a step.
The storm above hesitated. The crowd gasped.
Even Valen faltered.
Instructor Kaelle's face shifted into something dangerously close to… excitement.
"Continue!" she barked.
Valen screamed a word Caelen didn't understand — and the storm broke open.
Lightning fell like rain, dozens of bolts crashing into the platform.
The stone beneath Caelen's feet cracked, blackened, melted.
But Caelen wasn't standing still anymore.
He moved.
Threads of magic opened before him — visible only to him — and he stepped through them like stepping stones across a raging river.
He dodged one bolt. Then another. Then another.
The crowd stood now, shouting, screaming.
Nobody dodged lightning.
Nobody should survive this.
Valen's face twisted into fury. His hands shook with the effort of channeling the storm.
Rage, pride, fear — it all poured into his magic.
The final bolt he summoned was massive — the width of a tree trunk, blindingly bright, screaming toward Caelen with enough power to kill a wyvern.
Caelen reached.
Not outward.
Inward.
And the ember opened.
The ancient force inside him — the sleeping god, the broken king, the voice of endless wars — woke up.
Caelen's body burned from the inside out —
—but not with fire.
With memory.
Memory of a thousand battles. A million deaths.
The knowledge of wielding storms and shattering mountains.
He raised one hand.
The bolt struck him — and shattered like glass against an invisible shield.
The backlash threw Valen off his feet.
When the light cleared, Caelen stood alone on the smoking platform — untouched.
The entire Academy stared.
Prince Valen struggled to rise, bleeding from his mouth.
Instructor Kaelle stepped forward, face unreadable.
She lifted Caelen's arm high.
"Victory," she said simply.
The stands erupted.
Cheers, curses, awe — all blurring into a deafening roar.
Caelen hardly heard them.
He staggered from the platform, heart hammering, skin prickling.
What did I just do?
⸻
They didn't let him rest long.
Before nightfall, Master Velric summoned him.
Caelen followed two silent golems through twisting hallways into a place he'd never seen before — a circular chamber carved deep into the cliffs.
Torches of cold blue fire lit the walls. Symbols — ancient, older than any kingdom — spiraled across the floor.
Waiting for him were seven figures.
The High Masters of Aetheron Academy.
Seven of the strongest mages in the world — each representing one of the elemental houses: Fire, Water, Air, Earth, Lightning, Metal, and Shadow.
They watched him like hawks.
Velric stood at the center. He nodded for Caelen to step forward.
Caelen did, resisting the urge to look at his own shaking hands.
A woman with white hair braided into a crown spoke first.
"You are… unexpected."
A man with skin like molten bronze added, "Dangerous."
Another — whose eyes were blindfolded, but who radiated power like a furnace — said, "Needed."
Velric cleared his throat.
"Caelen Dusk," he said. "By ancient right and newfound necessity, you are hereby initiated into the Academy as a Novice of No House."
Gasps echoed.
No House? That was unheard of.
Students were sorted by Affinity — Fire, Water, Air, Earth — or cast out.
Being unaffiliated was like being a sword without a sheath. A storm without an anchor.
"You will remain under observation," Velric continued. "You will be tested in ways no normal student is."
"And if he fails?" asked the woman with the braid.
"He will not survive," said the blindfolded man.
Comforting.
"Dismissed," Velric said.
Caelen bowed awkwardly — not sure if that was the right thing to do — and turned to go.
But as he left, he caught something in the torchlight — a flicker of motion.
A shadow, darker than darkness itself, writhing along the edge of the chamber.
Watching him.
Waiting.
⸻
That night, Caelen couldn't sleep.
The ember pulsed hotter than usual, almost angry.
His dreams were jagged — flashes of the storm duel, the High Masters' cold faces, the shadow in the chamber.
But one dream stood out.
A woman stood in the middle of a battlefield — flames at her feet, a sword dripping blood in her hand.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes locked onto his.
You are mine, she said.
And Caelen knew her name.
Ashara.
The first Magelord. The Queen of Ruin.
The one who burned the world to save it — ten thousand years ago.
And she was alive.
Inside him.
⸻
At dawn, the Academy bells tolled three times — a signal Caelen didn't recognize.
When he stumbled into the mess hall, still half-dreaming, students were whispering furiously.
He caught pieces of it:
"—final trials—"
"—early this year—"
"—someone's awakening—"
Velric appeared beside him like a ghost.
"You and your yearmates are being moved up."
Caelen blinked. "Moved up to what?"
Velric's mouth quirked into a smile that was not kind.
"The Gauntlet."
⸻
The Gauntlet.
Every Academy student knew the name — and feared it.
A series of brutal tests, designed to weed out the weak. Only those who survived the Gauntlet graduated to full Apprentices.
Most didn't.
Some didn't even survive.
And it had never — never — been called this early in the year.
Caelen's stomach twisted.
I'm not ready.
He looked at Velric.
Velric looked back, unblinking.
"Ready or not," Velric said, "destiny doesn't wait."