Chapter 7: The Cradle of Flame

The winds were different now.

They no longer carried the scent of fear, but something older—like the breath of a world waking up. After the fall of Varik's Citadel, the Bound Flame had been silenced, and the skies felt lighter. But the fire in Po's chest had not settled. It pulsed, urging him southward.

Toward the place where it all began.

The Cradle of Flame.

Po stood at the cliff's edge, gazing down at a scar in the earth so deep it swallowed light. Lightning forked in the clouds above the rift, but the air around it was still. Waiting.

"Doesn't look like much of a cradle," Thorne muttered, resting his weight on a spear he'd scavenged after the battle. "More like a grave."

Kaelen remained silent. Her expression was unreadable, but her grip on the Emberblade tightened.

"This is where the Flame first touched the world," she finally said. "Before the crowns. Before the orders. Before Varik."

Po didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

He felt it—calling to him.

---

They descended into the rift through a narrow path carved into the cliff face. The journey took hours. The temperature rose steadily, yet the heat was not oppressive. It was reverent, almost sacred. The rock glowed faintly with symbols—markings that pulsed as they passed, reacting to Po's presence.

"The Flame remembers you," Kaelen whispered. "Even here."

When they reached the basin floor, they found it empty—no guardians, no monsters, only silence and stone. At the center of the basin was a wide, circular platform. Floating just above it was a sphere of white-gold flame.

Po stepped toward it. The moment his foot crossed the platform's edge, the fire flared, and the world dissolved into light.

---

He stood alone in a boundless field of starlit ash.

And before him: a figure cloaked in burning gold. Not a warrior. Not a god.

A child.

Her eyes were galaxies.

"You came," she said.

"Who are you?" Po asked, but even as he did, the answer formed in his mind.

"I am the first spark," she said. "I was the Flame before it knew what it could become."

She reached out her hand. "And now, I must know what you will become."

Po hesitated. "I don't even know who I really am."

"That's why you're here," she said softly. "To remember."

With a wave of her hand, the field cracked open.

And Po fell—backward through time.

---

He tumbled through visions.

A city made of crystal towers burning under a violet sky.

A man kneeling before a ring of flame, whispering an oath.

A woman bearing the Ember Crown, choosing mercy over conquest.

And then—himself.

Not as he was, but as he had been before—before waking in Arin'Thal, before the Flame. A young man in a small room. Dust. Hunger. A name on his lips—

"Po…"

The memory flickered.

Vanished.

And he landed hard—back in the Cradle.

The sphere of flame pulsed before him.

"You carry more than power," the child said. "You carry possibility. That makes you dangerous."

"Dangerous to who?"

"To those who want the fire to obey."

The flame twisted, and a vision formed above it—one Po hadn't seen before.

A mountain split in two. A sword buried in its heart. A figure wrapped in black and silver kneeling before it.

Kaelen.

Po's breath caught. "What is this?"

"A choice you will have to make," the child said. "To preserve the fire, or to set it free."

The vision vanished.

And the child's face grew solemn. "But you are not yet ready. Not without facing yourself."

From the flame, a shape stepped forward.

His own form.

Again.

But this time, it was neither corrupted nor golden. This version of Po was ordinary—unknowing, uncertain, mortal.

And he looked afraid.

Po stood face to face with the version of himself that had no fire, no legacy, no grand title. Just a boy—tired, wounded by life in ways no sword could match.

This Po didn't wear Embersteel. He wore a threadbare shirt and fear like armor.

The flame-child watched from the edges of the platform, her voice like soft thunder. "Before you can carry the Flame forward, you must accept where it came from—where you came from."

The other Po looked up. "Why did you leave me?" he asked.

Po blinked. "What?"

"You were me. Weak. Hungry. Forgotten. But you ran. You found fire. You became a story. You left me behind."

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did!" the boy snapped. "You think being Flamebreaker makes you brave? Strong? I lived before fire. Before Kaelen. Before legends. You left me in the dark, and now you want to pretend we were never the same."

Po stepped back, shaken. He hadn't expected anger. Not like this. Not from himself.

"I had to change," he said. "To survive."

"And I didn't?" The boy's eyes gleamed now, not with fire, but tears. "I survived every empty night. Every time they looked past me. Every time I cried out and no one listened. That fire? It didn't save me. I saved me. You just took the credit."

Po was silent.

The boy stepped forward. "So I ask you—do you really think you deserve the Flame?"

"I…" Po opened his mouth. Closed it. "I don't know."

Silence.

Then the boy reached out. "Then take my hand. And remember."

Po hesitated.

Then he grasped it.

---

The world vanished.

Po was suddenly in a stone hut. Damp. Cold. He was small again, curled in a corner, stomach empty, heart heavy. A woman—his mother?—lay still in the cot, unmoving.

He remembered this.

It was the night he stopped crying.

Because no one came.

Another memory. A marketplace. He was older, now. Stealing food. Running. Getting caught.

They didn't beat him. They just looked at him like he didn't matter.

He remembered the shame.

---

Then the orphanage. Harsh words. Harsher hands. But even then, he kept a small flame in his heart—not the Ember kind. A different one.

Hope.

Until even that flickered out.

And then—darkness.

---

Po gasped as the memories released him. He fell to his knees, trembling.

"I forgot," he whispered.

The boy knelt beside him. "No. You buried it. That's different."

Po looked at him. "I'm sorry."

The boy gave a small smile. "Don't be. Just don't forget again."

The flame-child stepped forward. "The past shapes us. But it does not define us. Now that you remember… you are ready."

She raised her hand.

And the boy vanished—folding into light and flowing into Po's chest.

The fire within him surged—not violently, but completely.

It was no longer borrowed.

It was truly his.

When Po opened his eyes, he was still in the Cradle.

But now, the platform had changed.

At its center stood a sword—half-buried in obsidian, its blade glowing white-blue, etched with flame-runes.

Kaelen and Thorne stood at the edge of the platform, watching him.

"You were gone for hours," Kaelen said quietly. "What happened?"

Po didn't answer. He stepped to the sword.

It pulsed as he approached.

A voice—his voice, older, deeper—whispered:

"Forge yourself."

He reached out.

The sword came free like it had always been part of him.

The flame around it did not burn.

It sang.

Kaelen knelt.

Thorne followed.

Po turned.

He was no longer just a bearer.

He was the forged flame.

That night, as they camped at the edge of the rift, Kaelen sat beside him.

"You saw something," she said.

"I saw everything," Po replied.

"And?"

"I don't think the fire chose me because I was strong. I think it chose me because I refused to break."

Kaelen nodded. "That's why I follow you."

Po looked at the blade resting near the fire.

"Then let's see how far I can carry it."

The next morning, the air in the rift felt different—charged and uneasy. The fires that had once burned steadily now flickered with unpredictable shadows. Po, Kaelen, and Thorne prepared to leave the Cradle, but something lingered in the depths below the surface.

Kaelen was the first to notice.

"Do you feel that?" she asked, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes.

Thorne grunted. "Like the ground's holding its breath."

Po touched the Emberblade, now humming softly. "Something's coming."

Before they could react, a figure stepped from the mists—a familiar face cloaked in the dark robes of the Council.

"Lira," Kaelen spat.

The woman smiled thinly. "You didn't expect me so soon, did you?"

Po narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Lira's gaze flicked to the Emberblade. "I came to warn you. Varik's enemies are not just outside these walls—they are inside your own ranks."

Thorne's hand went to his axe. "What's this about betrayal?"

Lira's smile faded. "The Council fears your growing power. Some believe the Flame should be contained, not wielded by one so untested."

Kaelen stepped forward. "We've faced worse than fear."

"But not from your own," Lira said softly. "I'm sorry it must come to this."

With a flick of her wrist, Lira unleashed a burst of shadow fire.

The battle was fierce.

Po raised the Emberblade, its flames swirling to meet the darkness. Kaelen and Thorne fought side by side, but Lira's power was formidable. She moved with precision and malice, her magic striking at their minds and bodies alike.

Po could feel the Ember Sigil pulsing against his chest, feeding him strength.

But the betrayal stung deep.

"How long have you been spying for them?" Po shouted as he clashed blades with Lira.

"Long enough to know you're dangerous," she hissed. "I won't let you become another Varik."

The fight pushed them to the brink.

Kaelen took a blow meant for Po, collapsing to the ground.

Thorne roared and charged, but Lira vanished in a swirl of smoke.

As silence returned, Po knelt beside Kaelen, her breathing shallow but steady.

"We can't trust the Council," Kaelen said faintly.

Po clenched his fists. "Then we make our own way."

Thorne helped Kaelen to her feet. "We have what we came for—the Emberblade, the Sigil. Let's finish this."

Po looked toward the darkening skies. The final mark on the map glowed fiercely.

Varik's Citadel awaited.