Chapter 8: Ashes of the Past

The forest whispered with unfamiliar tension as Elian stepped beneath the canopy of emerald leaves. Sunlight filtered through in broken shards, dancing over the mossy floor like spirits of a forgotten age. Though his expression remained unreadable, Elian's senses were alight. Every movement in the underbrush, every gust of wind brushing against his skin—it all felt clearer, sharper.

The Flame Vein had awakened something in him.

Something ancient.

His hand flexed subconsciously, and with it came the faint flicker of warmth—the same golden shimmer that had stunned him by the lake. It wasn't just energy. It was memory, an echo buried deep in his blood. And with each passing day, it stirred stronger.

"Elian!"

He turned. Mira pushed through the branches, panting. Her cheeks were flushed, not from exhaustion—but from anger.

"You left without telling anyone! Do you even care how reckless that is?"

"I needed to think," he replied quietly.

"Think?" Her voice trembled. "People are watching you now. Ever since the incident in the courtyard, the elders are on edge. They felt the energy burst, Elian. They just don't understand it."

"Neither do I," he admitted. "But I have to find out."

She stepped closer. "You're not the same boy from the orphanage anymore. This path you're on… it could consume you."

Elian held her gaze. "It already has."

They walked in silence until they reached a clearing. The scent of scorched earth lingered—charred bark, melted stone. This was the place where Elian had last trained in secret.

Where the first flame had erupted.

He knelt beside a blackened stump. The mark of his outburst was still etched into the soil—a perfect circle of ash surrounded by untouched grass, as if nature itself had feared to reclaim it.

Suddenly, his hand twitched.

A vision struck him.

Flashes of fire. Screams. Ancient temples collapsing beneath the weight of invisible power. Eyes—golden and cold—watching from the dark. A name whispered over and over, like a mantra.

"Elian…?"

Mira's voice broke the trance. His body was soaked in sweat. His heart pounded as if it had run miles.

"I saw something," he murmured. "A memory that isn't mine."

She frowned. "From who?"

"I don't know. But it's tied to the Flame."

That night, back at the town's edge, rumors were already stirring.

Two scouts from the Crimson Veil Sect had arrived early. Dressed in robes of crimson and black, they wore masks that concealed all but their eyes—eyes that judged with every glance.

Elian watched from the shadows of the inn's second floor. He had no intention of revealing himself yet. But the scouts weren't what drew his attention.

It was the man they followed.

Tall. Regal. Hair silver as starlight and skin like molten bronze.

Lord Feran.

The Warden of the Central Flame Pillar.

Elian recognized him from the murals in the temple ruins Mira had once shown him. He'd dismissed it back then as coincidence.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Because the mark on Feran's wrist—half-hidden beneath his sleeve—was the same symbol Elian had seen in his vision. A spiral of flame crossed by three vertical slashes.

Mira stepped beside him. "That's Feran. He oversees spirit vein classifications. He could help you."

"Or destroy me," Elian replied. "If he knows what I carry…"

"You think he's connected?"

"I know he is."

Mira hesitated. "Then you need to leave before you're found."

But Elian didn't move. "No. If he's here, that means he's searching for something—or someone. I need to know why."

The following morning, the town square was filled with excitement.

Dozens of youths gathered for the Vein Evaluation, where those between ages twelve and seventeen could officially be measured for sect acceptance. It was a rite of passage, but also a spectacle.

Elian stood among them, silent.

The others whispered.

"What's he doing here?"

"That's the spiritless one."

"Didn't he fail his Awakening?"

He ignored them.

A large crystal obelisk stood at the center of the platform. It pulsed with light—waiting. One by one, the candidates placed their hands upon it. The crystal would glow brighter the higher their potential.

First was a boy from the merchant district. The crystal turned soft green.

Second, a girl from the riverside temple. Pale blue.

Then a noble's son. Gold.

Applause followed each.

When Elian's name was called, the murmurs turned to chuckles.

"He's still trying?"

"What a joke."

He stepped forward.

The crowd grew quiet, waiting for failure.

Elian placed his hand on the crystal.

Nothing happened.

No light.

The examiner opened his mouth to dismiss him.

Then—crack.

The crystal trembled.

A line of fire streaked up its core. The air changed. It thickened, hummed, burned.

Then it exploded.

The crystal burst into fragments, golden flames erupting outward. No one was harmed, but everyone was silent.

Elian's hand still glowed faintly.

Feran stood. His expression unreadable.

Mira rushed to Elian's side. "You shouldn't have done that!"

"I had to," he replied. "Now they'll come to me."

Later, Elian was summoned to the High Pavilion.

Feran awaited him alone.

The room was dim, lit only by spirit-lanterns floating in the air.

"You carry the Ash Veins," Feran said simply. "The oldest known variant of spiritual flow. Thought extinct."

"I don't understand."

"You will," Feran replied. "But first—you must survive."

He tossed something toward Elian. A scroll, sealed with red wax.

"Inside is a location. Go there, and the truth of your lineage will begin to reveal itself. But know this—others will hunt you now. Not just for your power, but for what you represent."

"What do I represent?"

Feran's gaze narrowed.

"Balance undone. Power returned. A war reignited."

Elian gripped the scroll tightly.

The Flame was only the beginning.