The Weight of Flames

"Mellissa, as you already know, our Ignisclade family has a long history of strong and successful individuals who have made a name for themselves in both the kingdom and the empire at large," her father said as they walked through the grand hall of their ancestral estate.

The long corridor stretched endlessly, the walls adorned with towering portraits of Ignisclade legends. Each frame held a titan of history, their gazes burning with the weight of their accomplishments.

Her father, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, had his sleeves rolled up as if to show that even greatness required work. His black hair, slicked back and polished, caught the light from the grand chandeliers above, giving it a subtle gleam.

He stopped before the first portrait—a man standing shirtless, muscles sculpted like iron, holding the severed head of a colossal dragon. Blood still dripped from its fangs.

"This right here is Brax, known as the Dragon Slayer. He stood firm in the deadly dance of the dragons in Volthera, the Kingdom of Lightning. When the royal army fell, when the skies burned with the fury of a thousand storms, he alone stood as the last man. A dozen dragons fell that day, but only one warrior remained."

Mellissa's gaze lingered on the portrait. The savage grin Brax wore as he clutched the dragon's head—it was the look of someone who never questioned whether he would win. Someone who had no room for failure.

Her father walked on, stopping before the next painting—a woman draped in crimson robes, her outstretched hand clutching a burning scroll, eyes glowing with an ethereal light.

"This here is Sillia, the Heart of the Kingdom. It was she who unified the warring noble houses when the empire was on the brink of collapse. Her words alone held the power to sway kings, and her flames brought destruction to those who defied her rule. It is said that when she walked into a throne room, even rulers trembled, for she decided who would rise… and who would burn."

Mellissa swallowed, moving past the portrait quickly. Her father, however, took his time, as if letting the weight of history settle before moving on.

The next figure stood like a towering inferno. His armor, blackened by battle, was cracked with molten lines, as if fire coursed through his very veins.

"This is Vael, the Burning Sentinel. During the Siege of Aedram, the western walls crumbled, and the empire's enemies surged forward. The people screamed, the armies faltered—but Vael did not. He made his body a conduit of fire itself, unleashing flames so powerful they turned the battlefield into an ocean of molten ruin. For seven days, the city burned, but when the embers cooled, not a single enemy remained standing."

Mellissa bit her lip, feeling the enormity of her family's legacy pressing against her chest. But her father wasn't done.

Next was a woman, her crimson cloak flowing like silk, a steel rod in one hand, a dagger in the other. Around her feet lay men—nobles, warriors, criminals—some kneeling, some already burned to dust.

"Isolde, the Crimson Adjudicator," her father murmured with reverence. "With but a single decree, kings bowed, and traitors burned. She was the empire's Grand Magistrate, the highest authority in law and order. They say no one could lie in her presence—her very gaze could strip a man of his falsehoods, forcing even the most hardened traitors to confess their sins. She was feared, revered… and absolutely undeniable."

Mellissa clenched her fists. A ruler of law and judgment—her ancestors had mastered not only the battlefield but the very fabric of power itself.

And then came Theron, a man wielding a massive greatsword, its blade glowing like the first rays of dawn. His stance was effortless, yet the sheer pressure in his eyes was suffocating.

"Theron, the Dawn Executioner. When the Black Sun Rebellion threatened the empire, their strongest champion was said to be an immortal, undefeated in a hundred duels. Theron did not hesitate. He stepped forward, swung once, and ended the rebellion before it could even begin."

A single strike.

Mellissa could feel her pulse hammering. Could she ever hope to reach such heights?

Then came Calista—a woman unlike the warriors before her. Her hands were outstretched, weaving glowing blueprints of runes and mechanisms that pulsed with arcane fire.

"Calista, the Phoenix Weaver. Unlike the others, she was a creator. She did not wield fire to destroy—she wielded it to reshape the world. Her inventions changed how we use essence, how we fight, how we live. Even now, the Hearthbound Core she designed powers the floating cities of the empire. Her flames did not consume… they forged."

Mellissa exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath.

And then they came to the final portrait.

A man stood tall, his back straight, his face expressionless. He was not adorned in the blood of battle. He did not hold a weapon, nor did fire blaze from his hands. He wore only a simple black coat, his golden eyes staring out from the frame, unreadable.

Beneath his portrait, unlike the others, there was no list of accomplishments. No battle, no conquest, no title of war. There was only one name.

Darius Ignisclade – The Infernal Crown.

Her father.

Mellissa felt a chill creep up her spine.

His name was legend, whispered in courts, feared on battlefields, and revered in shadows. Yet no one ever spoke of his feats. No records existed of his greatest victories, yet all knew his influence reached farther than even the empire's borders.

Some claimed he once burned an entire noble house to the ground for defying the empire. Others whispered that he could command fire to whisper its secrets to him.

What had he done?

Mellissa turned to him, but her father's gaze was unreadable. His silence was heavier than the weight of the hall itself.

"You understand now, don't you?" he finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "The blood of Ignisclade runs through your veins. The weight of our name is heavy, but it is yours to bear. What will you make of it, Mellissa?"

Mellissa clenched her fists.

She had always known she was born into greatness. But standing here, beneath the watchful eyes of her ancestors, she felt something else.

Expectation.

It was suffocating.

It was terrifying.

And worst of all—

She did not know if she could live up to it.

—--

A silver light shone above her, cascading in brilliant arcs as the hall erupted into chaos. Gasps turned to cheers, the sheer force of Mellissa's awakening leaving even the most seasoned veterans speechless.

Among them, her father leaned back, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "That's it, Mellissa," he murmured, voice laced with approval. "You didn't disappoint."

His gaze flickered to the side—to the Emberbanes.

Their expressions were unreadable, their attention no longer on Mellissa but on their own son, Angus. Hope and desperation clashed in their eyes as they looked at him showing pure struggle and strain, blood flowing out the sides of his lips

Darius chuckled, a quiet, knowing sound.