Chapter 9: The Scroll
The moment Elian stepped beyond the Pavilion gates, the weight of the scroll seemed to press against his chest like a brand. He could feel it pulsing faintly through the fabric of his robes—a steady thrum, almost alive.
The night wind howled around him, carrying whispers from the town that was no longer home.
"Ash Veins."
"He destroyed the crystal."
"He's dangerous…"
He knew his time in the town was over. Even Mira, as close as she had become, wouldn't be able to shield him from the eyes that now watched too closely.
He moved quickly through the forest path, torchlight in hand. The moon lit the trees like ghostly sentinels, and the shadows danced in long, spiraling coils. Each step took him further from the world he had known… and closer to the one written for him in fire and forgotten blood.
He stopped at a grove by the river and unsealed the scroll.
The wax melted the instant his thumb pressed it, not with heat—but with recognition. A crimson light traced runes across the parchment, rearranging into ancient glyphs he somehow understood.
"Seek the Shrine of Emberroot. Three nights west. Beneath the Blackfang Cliffs."
He frowned. Emberroot was a myth. A tale spoken by traveling merchants to scare children: an ancient ruin where spirit beasts howled like men and the ground bled when touched. But Feran had said the truth of his lineage began there.
And Elian had seen enough to stop doubting what shouldn't be real.
He folded the scroll and moved on.
On the second night, under a canopy of starlight, Elian made camp near the Ashen Basin. He sat by the fire, chewing on dried roots and sketching the rune he'd seen on Feran's wrist into the dirt—spiral flame, three slashes.
Why had Feran helped him? What did the Warden stand to gain?
More importantly—why had the crystal exploded?
The sensation had been like something inside him snapping. The power that surged in that moment hadn't obeyed him—it had erupted. He'd touched the crystal and it had recognized him. Not as a prodigy.
But as a threat.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered to the night.
A rustle in the bushes answered him.
He froze.
Then a low growl.
Elian stood. His hand moved to the small dagger he kept strapped to his side.
Out of the darkness stepped a beast—massive, four-legged, eyes glowing with dull crimson light. Its fur shimmered with embers.
A Blazehound.
Rare. Wild. Born of fire essence.
It snarled. The forest around them glowed faintly as dry leaves began to catch flame from its breath.
Elian's instincts screamed to run.
But something inside him—the Flame—awoke.
The same golden shimmer flared along his forearm. He felt warmth flood his veins. His fear dulled. His vision sharpened.
The Blazehound charged.
And Elian moved.
Not back—but forward.
He ducked under the beast's leap, rolled, and thrust his palm toward its exposed flank. Flame burst from his fingertips—not from a spell, but from within.
The blast struck the creature midair.
It howled, crashing into the rocks.
Elian didn't stop.
He leapt, channeling more flame through his fists, eyes wild with something unfamiliar. He struck once—twice—until the beast lay still, its ember eyes fading.
His chest heaved. The flames around him died instantly, as though bowing to him.
He stared at his hands.
Burnless.
He hadn't just survived.
He'd commanded the Flame.
At sunrise, Elian reached the edge of the Blackfang Cliffs. Wind howled between the broken stones. The cliffs jutted from the earth like shattered bones, twisted and towering. Below, a narrow path led to a narrow canyon swallowed by mist.
He descended slowly, each step echoing.
Then he saw it.
At the base of the cliffs, hidden by overgrowth and ash: a set of obsidian doors, covered in ancient runes.
The Shrine of Emberroot.
His breath caught.
They looked just like the ones in his vision.
He stepped closer, pressing his hand against the door. The surface was cold… until his veins glowed.
The Ash Veins pulsed.
And the door opened.
Not with a groan.
But with a chant.
A thousand voices whispered in forgotten tongues, echoing through the dark beyond.
Elian stepped inside.
The shrine was enormous. A cathedral carved into the mountain itself. Golden braziers lit the stone corridors, though none had touched them in centuries. At the heart of the shrine lay a pool of molten essence, churning like liquid sun.
Above it, floating… was a sword.
Black as night. Its hilt wrapped in red cloth, inscribed with more of the glyphs Elian could now read.
"Ashbound. Soul of Flame."
He stepped toward it.
Each step was agony. The flame pool stirred violently, testing him, judging.
But Elian didn't flinch.
His hand closed around the sword.
The essence erupted upward.
He was no longer in the shrine.
He stood in fire.
Around him: shadowy figures, warriors of an age long gone. Each bore the mark. Each had wielded the Ashbound blade.
He was the last.
They bowed.
Then vanished.
When he awoke, the sword was at his side.
And his veins…
They burned with purpose.