Chapter 11: Wyrmkin Word

[Ember Hollow, Galdareth's Southern Heart]

Smoke drifted in lazy spirals above the glade, lit orange by the sun filtering through the canopy. The Wyrmkin lay curled among the stone roots of an ancient hill-tree, breathing in slow, pained bursts. The grove, once filled with tension and wrath, now echoed only with birdsong and whispered Spriggan chants.

Jumong knelt near the creature, fingers still tingling from the vision. Dirt and blood caked his arms, but he barely noticed. He stared at the beast's glowing wounds, the flickering pulse beneath its translucent scales.

"It was never just a monster…"

He repeated the thought, trying to make sense of the broken images. Who were the Flamebearers? And why did this cursed creature remember them?

Behind him, Tharn approached in silence.

"The Grove has not seen such an act in two centuries," the Rootseer said, kneeling beside Jumong. "To touch a Wyrmkin's Ember-mind… is to walk between fire and memory."

"It let me see what it was," Jumong said softly. "Before it lost everything."

"You should not be alive. That memory could have burned your soul to ash."

"Maybe it tried. Maybe… it didn't want to be alone anymore."

Tharn gave a long, slow exhale. "There is more to you than claws and iron, human. You may not be of the forest—but you have earned its silence."

Jumong looked to the tree-line where Spriggans watched him from shadows, their expressions unreadable.

"I didn't come here to earn anything," he muttered. "I just wanted to grow stronger."

"Growth often walks hand in hand with truth," Tharn replied. "And you've uncovered something buried far deeper than we imagined."

From the upper canopy, young Spriggan scouts whispered among the leaves.

"He moved like prey once," murmured one.

"But now even the flameborn do not strike him," another said. "What does that make him?"

Their elder, Lishk, emerged behind them.

"It makes him a threat," she said. "Or an ally. We shall see."

Her fingers traced the antler-carved knife at her waist.

"But he stood still when others fled. That counts for something."

[Spriggan Encampment]

Under a lattice of moss and bark-woven huts, Jumong sat near a shared fire. His blade, cracked from the battle, lay across his lap. Around him, Spriggans moved in circles—singing, mixing salves, healing wounds with bioluminescent sap.

A child-like Spriggan sat across from him, eyes wide.

"You spoke to it?"

Jumong nodded.

"Kind of. It spoke in thoughts. Memories."

"Did it say your name?"

"No. But I said mine."

"Maybe it remembers now."

Jumong smiled faintly, then winced as a healer wrapped his ribs with a thick green poultice.

"You are lucky your bones are as stubborn as your mind," she grunted.

"Still hurts like the pit."

She smirked.

"Good. That means you're still alive."

Later that night, Jumong sat on a stone ledge overlooking the grove. The stars glimmered, unbothered by mortal struggles. His satchel held the broken pieces of his shortblade. Beside him lay a charcoal sketch he'd made—a rough image of the Flame-cloaked warrior from the Wyrmkin's vision.

"Guard the flame…" he muttered.

He didn't know what that meant. Not yet.

But he was starting to suspect that the Embercraft and these cursed beasts were tied together—ancient threads in a forgotten tapestry.

"This world's older than anyone knows."

He picked up a shard of his weapon. A dull glint. The blade was done.

"I'll need something better. Something earned."

He stood.

"But not yet. Not until I understand what I'm walking into."

From the darkness below, the Wyrmkin stirred. Its eyes met his—no longer burning with rage.

Jumong nodded.

"You don't have to follow. But you're not alone anymore."

The Wyrmkin huffed and rested its head again.

Behind him, Tharn spoke.

"It may return to its path. Or it may wander beside yours."

"I'm fine either way," Jumong said. "This journey… it's mine alone."

At the northern edge of the forest, a hidden door creaked open.

A red-robed figure stepped into the light, his face marked with the rune of Kindling.

"He has touched the flame."

Another voice responded from the dark.

"Then the trial begins in earnest."

____

A hush blanketed the dawn like dew. Mist clung to the trunks of the trees, thick and silver, muting the rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. Jumong stepped carefully between roots and moss-laden boulders, his cloak stained from sleep and soil. He had left before the others woke, not wanting goodbyes. The Wyrmkin watched from a distance, then turned and vanished into the deep forest.

The trail ahead was faint, as though the land itself wished to keep its secrets buried. Yet Jumong pressed on, each step heavier with thought.

"Trial begins in earnest..." he murmured.

What did it mean? And who were those figures in red?

A low wind passed overhead. He paused. Not wind. Wings.

From the clouds, a crimson hawk circled, a flare of red fire feathering its body. It screeched once—a strange sound, more like a flare igniting than a bird's cry—and then veered north.

Jumong watched it go, heart ticking faster.

"Is that... a sign?"

He looked down at the shard of his old blade tucked into his belt.

"Whatever this trial is... I'll face it on my terms."

[Temple Ruins of Kindling]

The structure rose from the earth like a broken tooth. Vines draped over black stone and shattered pillars. At the center of the ruin, a brazier flickered with cold embers despite no wind, no spark.

Jumong approached warily.

He stepped into the ring of broken pillars.

"Who seeks the trial?" a voice asked—calm, genderless, and echoing.

Jumong stood still. "I do."

The embers surged.

"You do not carry the Mark."

"I carry intent."

"Intent is not legacy."

"I don't want legacy. I want to earn strength. One hardship at a time."

Silence. Then the flame breathed.

From the embers rose a shimmering specter—humanoid, its form flickering like a fire half-remembered. It bore no face, no voice of its own. But its posture held purpose.

"Then face the Flamebound Trial."

Around Jumong, the world darkened. The sky turned a bruised crimson, and he was pulled—no, drawn—into a hollow space between moments.

____

The air here shimmered with heat, though no fire burned. The ground was flat glassy obsidian, reflecting Jumong's face back at him. Across the black expanse stood three figures—spectral warriors, faceless but vivid. One bore a twin-axe, the second a hammer longer than a man was tall, and the third—a curved sword crackling with faint flame.

"Show us why you seek the flame," a voice whispered.

Jumong narrowed his stance, knees slightly bent. He had no sword. Only the shard. It pulsed faintly in his belt.

"Not fair," he said to no one.

"Neither is life," came the reply.

The first figure lunged—twin axes slicing the air with a war howl that felt like burning ropes snapping. Jumong dodged right, rolling across the glass floor, and felt the ground sear through his shirt.

He scrambled up, breath short.

"They're not illusions."

He feinted left, grabbed a fallen ember-staff from the floor—hot, brittle—and swung it to block the hammer's arc. It shattered.

"No weapon will be given," the voice said. "Only what you forge."

Jumong reached for the shard at his waist.

"Then I forge my own damn path."

He drove the shard into the ground. Flame erupted. From the wound in the obsidian rose a crude sword—half molten, half solid.

He grabbed it. His hands blistered, but he didn't let go.

"Come on, then."

The figures charged again.

[Spriggan Grove]

Tharn sat before a pool of moonlight water, eyes closed. Around him, Spriggan seers chanted.

"He enters the Ember Mirror," one whispered.

"Few survive," said another. "Fewer still remember."

Tharn's fingers tightened on his staff.

"But the boy doesn't walk to conquer. He walks to understand."

"Even the Flame devours those with good hearts."

"Perhaps. But fire can also temper."

Jumong ducked under the hammer's swing, then vaulted off the axe-warrior's shoulder. He plunged his molten sword into the chest of the sword bearer.

It screamed—not in pain, but in recognition.

Memories—flashes of a time when Flamebearers stood guard over cities of ember and steel—poured through his mind. Of fire that healed. Of flame that bound memory to weapon.

"You're not ready," a voice whispered. "But you will be."

The glass cracked beneath his feet. The world exploded in white.

Jumong gasped, clutching the shard-blade now solid in his hands. The specters were gone. The brazier burned bright.

His knees hit the ground.

"You are not Flameborn," the voice said. "But you have kindled the first ember."

"So what now?"

"Now you walk. Alone, still. But watched."

"Watched?"

The wind rustled, carrying faint laughter.

"Flame remembers."

From beyond the mountain range, a horn blew—long, low, and mournful.

A signal. A summoning.

Jumong stood, breath ragged. He tightened his grip on the emberforged sword.

"Then let it begin."