The chamber known as the Hall of Cinders lay deep beneath the Emberforge — a place few Wardens ever set foot in, and fewer still survived.
It was said that the First Wardens had bled their souls into the stones here, that the fire which once birthed kings and heroes still lingered, hungry and alive.
Kaelen stood at the threshold, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. The heavy obsidian doors loomed before him, veins of molten rock pulsing faintly within the black stone.
"Enter," Warden-Commander Theron's voice echoed behind him, low and commanding. "Face the Rite, Kaelen Ashreach. Forge your flame... or be consumed by it."
Kaelen drew in a breath so deep it scraped his lungs raw.
Then he stepped forward — and the doors groaned open.
Inside, the Hall was a cathedral of fire and shadow. Rivers of magma flowed in canals across the floor, illuminating the towering statues of long-dead Wardens. Their stone faces stared down with judgment and sorrow.
At the center, an altar of blackened iron rose, ancient runes burning along its surface.
Hovering above the altar was a flame — small, flickering, almost fragile — yet Kaelen felt its pull immediately, like a tide dragging at the core of him.
The Last Ember.
He approached, his boots echoing in the cavernous space.
"You must offer it something," Theron said, stepping into the Hall behind him. "Something it can shape. A piece of yourself. A memory. A truth."
Kaelen frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means you must bleed," Theron said simply. "Not with blade — but with spirit."
Kaelen swallowed.
He knew immediately which memory to offer.
The Fall.
Ashreach burning.
His mother's scream lost in the roar of collapsing walls.
The cold, bitter ashes clinging to his skin as he ran.
The helplessness.
The rage.
He let it rise inside him, unfiltered and raw, until it blazed in his chest like a second sun.
The Ember flared in response, growing brighter, reaching for him.
Kaelen extended his hand — and the flame darted forward, piercing into his palm like a hot brand.
Pain seared through him, but he did not pull away.
Instead, he embraced it.
The fire didn't destroy him.
It rewrote him.
Images flashed through his mind — visions of ancient Wardens battling monstrous creatures born of ash and shadow, spells woven from pure fire, blades singing through the darkness.
Then — silence.
When Kaelen opened his eyes, the Ember had vanished into his skin, leaving behind a faint glow across his veins — like molten gold beneath flesh.
Theron approached, nodding grimly.
"You have passed," he said. "The Ember recognizes you."
Kaelen staggered, breathing hard. His fingers flexed instinctively, and tiny flickers of blue-gold flame danced across his knuckles.
Power — real, living power — coursed through his body.
"Now," Theron said, voice darkening, "you must learn to master it."
Training began immediately.
Every day, Kaelen was dragged into the Emberforge's old arenas — circular pits of stone and fire, where heat shimmered the air and the smell of scorched earth filled his lungs.
He sparred against illusions conjured by the Senior Wardens — specters of beasts, rogue Ashen mages, creatures pulled from the oldest nightmares.
Each fight forced Kaelen to draw deeper into the Ember within him.
At first, the power responded clumsily — fire bursting uncontrolled, wild arcs of heat and light that endangered even his allies.
But slowly, painfully, he learned.
He learned to shape the fire into walls, to forge it into blades, to unleash it in precise blasts that could fell a target without destroying everything around it.
He learned the deeper truth too —
Ember magic was fueled by memory.
The stronger the emotion tied to a memory, the stronger the flame it could create.
Rage fueled destruction.
Hope fueled shields.
Love... could heal.
Kaelen began weaving new memories into his magic — not just the pain of the Fall, but the fierce loyalty he felt toward his new squad. The bitter vow he had made under the ruins of his home. The fragile, flickering hope that he could build something better from the ashes.
Each memory became a weapon.
Each scar became armor.
One night, after a brutal session, Kaelen slumped against the arena wall, dripping with sweat and blood. His tunic was scorched, his breathing ragged.
Elowen tossed him a waterskin and sat down beside him.
"Not bad, Warden," she said. "You only almost set yourself on fire three times tonight."
Kaelen managed a laugh. "Progress."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the forge fires crackle in the distance.
Then Elowen said, more serious, "You're getting stronger. But strength isn't enough. You'll face things out there that can't be beaten by muscle or magic alone."
Kaelen turned to her, frowning. "Then what do I need?"
She looked at him, eyes hard as tempered steel.
"Resolve," she said. "The will to do what needs to be done. Even when it costs you everything."
Kaelen thought of Ashreach again — of the charred bodies, the weeping skies, the hollow victory of survival.
He understood.
And he promised himself he would not hesitate when the time came.
At the end of the Rite, Theron presented Kaelen with a new weapon —
A blade forged from Embersteel, engraved with his own Oath runes, pulsing faintly with his fire.
"This is Vaerlyn," Theron said. "The Sword of the Last Ember. Wield it well, Warden."
Kaelen gripped the hilt.
It felt like coming home.