Preparation

The sky was still dark when the funeral pyre was lit.

The flames reached toward the heavens like desperate hands, casting long shadows across the trees and stone walls of the enclave. The scent of incense and cedar smoke filled the morning air, mingling with the sharp bite of grief. This was the Rite of burning the last farewell for warriors, wanderers, and those who had carried fire within their souls.

Cael stood at the edge of the stone circle, his father's wrapped body lying atop the pyre, flames licking the linen and climbing with careful reverence. A ring of etched stones surrounded the fire, glowing faintly with soft runes ancient glyphs that protected the soul's ascent. The people of the enclave stood in silence, heads bowed, hands crossed over their hearts.

Korr stood beside Cael, dressed in ceremonial black. He said nothing, offering only presence as he always had. Fen and Old Maret stood a few paces behind, one young, one ancient, but both wearing grief plainly on their faces.

The fire snapped as a pocket of air burst in the logs beneath Darian's body.

Cael clenched his fists at his sides.

The pain wasn't sharp anymore it was deeper than that, slow and heavy like stone settling in his chest. His father had said little in the end. No grand speeches. No tearful confessions. Only a hand on Cael's chest and a single, rattled whisper:

"LIve"

Then, nothing.

Now the fire devoured what remained of him flesh and cloth and memory. Smoke rose into the dawn air, curling through the trees and vanishing into the sky. Cael watched, unblinking, until tears blurred his vision and the flames became a blur of gold and red.

When the fire burned low, Old Maret stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Darian of the Ember Line has returned to the flame," the old man said in a voice stronger than expected. "His memory endures in those who survive him. And in the fire that shaped him."

He placed a shard of black glass into the dying fire a remnant from the Ember Cradle and the flames turned blue for a breath, then vanished altogether.

Silence followed.

And then, one by one, the people of the enclave turned and left the clearing.

Only Cael remained.

He stood in the ashes until the cold reached his bones.

The next morning, preparations began.

The world hadn't ended with his father's death. It had simply shifted realigned into something harsher, something lonelier. But Cael had no time to linger. The decision had already been made.

He was leaving.

With Fen.

The boy's Ashwalk trial would take them far to the south, through mountains and wastelands. A rite of passage few survived. But Fen was ready. And Cael… Cael needed something to fight toward. Something to prove.

The Enchanted Flask

Old Maret summoned them to his stone-carved workshop two days after the rite. The place was cluttered with strange contraptions rusted tools, rune-etched stones, bundles of dried herbs, and glowing fragments of crystal set into the walls like lanterns.

The old man stood hunched over a bench, his hands working carefully around a small metal flask. As they entered, he turned with a grunt and held it up between two fingers.

"Your water," he said, offering it to Cael.

The flask was warm to the touch, engraved with circular glyphs that shimmered faintly as Cael turned it in his hand.

"It draws water from the air, filters it through the runes carved into its belly," Maret explained. "Don't rely on it too much. It can keep two people alive… but not comfortable."

Fen took it next, studying it with a quiet awe. "How old is the enchantment?"

"I reforged it myself," Maret said. "But the runes? Older than this enclave. Older than even the Cradle."

Cael bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."

The old man waved him off. "You'll need more than thanks where you're headed."

Rations and Remedies

That afternoon, they packed their supplies.

The enclave had little to spare, but the people gave what they could dried meats wrapped in oiled cloth, small loaves of flatbread, pouches of preserved fruit, and bundles of cured roots that could be boiled into stews.

Fen was meticulous. He arranged everything into their packs with the focus of a scholar, ensuring weight distribution, calorie value, and even herbal versatility. He included two vials of glowing sap good for burns and staving off infection and a small bundle of sleep-leaf in case of injury.

Cael watched him quietly. There was something deliberate in everything Fen did. He never wasted motion, never made a fuss. At first glance, he looked almost fragile lean with soft features and unassuming eyes but his presence was sharp, precise.

Fen looked like a poet. Moved like a predator.

He wore dark leather armor reinforced with rootweave, a technique from the southern wilds that hardened plant fibers into flexible plates. His bow was sleek and pale, made from ghostwood, a tree that only grew where magic still ran wild. And when he smiled which was rare it was always with one corner of his mouth, like he was afraid of giving too much away.

"How many trials before you?" Cael asked, breaking the silence.

"Seven from this enclave," Fen said, not looking up from his packing. "Two returned. Neither the same."

"Does that scare you?"

Fen paused, then shrugged. "Not really. I've always felt like I belonged somewhere else. Maybe I'll find it out there."

Cael didn't reply. He simply nodded.

They understood each other in that silence.

Weapons for the Road

Korr arrived the next morning with two blades wrapped in cloth.

He unrolled them across the stone table, revealing twin short swords with curved hilts and obsidian inlays. The steel shimmered with a faint black sheen, like oil beneath starlight.

"These were your father's," Korr said. "He used them before you were born. Light. Balanced. Stronger than they look."

Cael took them without hesitation. The weight felt right in his hands familiar, even.

Korr placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't let his death make you reckless."

"I won't," Cael said, eyes hard. "I'll let it make me relentless."

Korr smirked. "Good."

Fen took only his bow, a quiver of hollow-pointed arrows, and a thin-bladed dagger. When asked why, he simply said, "I only carry what I can lose."

They were almost ready.

The Destination: The Ashen Pass

That night, Maret sat them down around the fire and drew a crude map into the dirt.

"The Ashen Pass," he said, tapping a jagged stretch of mountain scrawl. "Collapsed valley, now a stretch of unstable ridges and sulfur vents. Nothing grows there. You'll follow the pass southeast to the Basin of Teeth. That's where the Ashwalk begins."

"Why there?" Cael asked.

"Because it's where the world forgets the weak," Maret replied, eyes glinting. "And remembers the strong."

"Sounds inviting," Fen muttered.

"You'll reach the edge of the basin in nine days if you move quickly. Fifteen if you don't. There are safe pockets, abandoned shelters, even an old waystation from the war. But they aren't always safe anymore."

Cael memorized every detail.

He had never feared the unknown. But this? This wasn't just a journey.

It was transformation.

That final evening, the two of them stood atop the northern ridge, overlooking the forest beyond. The enclave lay behind them, faint lanterns glowing through mist like fading stars.

Cael reached into his cloak and pulled out a small piece of fireglass all that remained from his father's pyre.

"I keep waiting to hear him," he said softly. "In my dreams. In the wind. Something."

Fen looked at the stone, then at Cael.

"He's not gone," the boy said. "He just stepped off the path. You'll catch up."

Cael swallowed hard and nodded. Then he slipped the shard into a pouch around his neck.

The stars above were distant and cold.

But the embers within burned steady.

Tomorrow, they would walk into fire and storm together.