Chapter 20: Fire and Ice

The training chamber deep beneath the forge was unlike anything Ember had seen.

Circular. Enchanted. Quiet.

Braziers lined the walls, but no flame danced unless summoned. It was a blank canvas—waiting for her.

Lysander stood at the center, his tunic replaced by light armor, a wooden practice sword on his back.

"Welcome," he said as Ember stepped inside, her footsteps echoing on the stone. "You're early."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Good," he said, tossing her a weighted staff. "Then you'll burn longer."

She caught it with one hand, eyes narrowing. "Is this how you greet all your trainees?"

"No. But most of them don't intrigue me like you do."

She rolled her eyes, but the flicker of a smile tugged at her mouth. "So what's today's lesson? Don't die?"

Lysander stepped forward, slowly drawing a circle in the dirt with his boot. "Control."

Ember raised an eyebrow. "I have control."

"Do you?" He stepped aside. "Show me."

The first half-hour was simple—channeling sparks into specific shapes, suppressing bursts of magic until they flickered like candles instead of wildfires. Ember did well. Better than most, by Lysander's raised eyebrows.

But then came the test.

"I want you to fight me," he said, lifting the practice sword from his back.

"With this?" she said, holding the staff. "What happened to magic?"

"Magic comes second. First, I need to see how you move when you're cornered."

She smirked. "I don't corner easily."

"We'll see."

They circled each other like predators.

Lysander moved fast. Ember faster.

But he was calculating—forcing her into positions that tired her arm, made her footwork clumsy. He didn't go for kill shots. He went for weakness.

"Your stance is wide."

She adjusted.

"Your left foot's slow."

She countered.

When he finally knocked the staff from her hand, she caught it mid-air, spun, and kicked at his legs. He stumbled—and grinned.

Then, without warning, she threw a blast of heat at him.

The air shimmered.

He dodged, barely.

"Not bad," he panted.

"You said no magic."

"I said you couldn't. I never said I wouldn't."

With a smirk, he unsheathed a dagger from his belt and tossed it—not at her, but at the wall behind.

It struck a rune.

The walls erupted with simulated enemies—phantoms shaped from wind and smoke, bearing swords, fangs, and cruel laughter.

Lysander stepped back. "Your real lesson starts now."

Ember fought.

She didn't hesitate.

With each strike of her staff, with each spark of her flame, she wove through the shadows like a flame through dry grass.

But the illusions didn't bleed. They didn't tire.

She stumbled.

Heat flared uncontrollably.

She screamed, fury and fear curling into a golden inferno—and the phantoms dissolved.

Lysander lowered his sword. "And that," he said softly, "is what I wanted to see."

"What? Me losing control?"

"No," he said. "You owning it."

She dropped the staff, breathing hard. "What's the point of all this?"

"You've fought to survive, Ember. But soon, you'll have to fight to lead. To command. Fire is only part of it."

"And the rest?"

He stepped closer. "That's what I'll teach you. If you'll let me."

Their eyes locked.

It wasn't like the heat she felt with Kael—reckless, consuming.

Lysander was different. Measured. Intentional.

And somehow, just as dangerous.

Outside the chamber, Kael stood in the corridor, watching the flickers of light beneath the door. Listening to the sounds of her training, her laughter, her fire.

He turned away, fists clenched.

He wasn't afraid of Lysander's blade.

He was afraid of Ember choosing it over his.

Far away, in the throne room of ash, the Flame King paced before the mirror, watching it flicker with scenes from the forge.

"He sharpens her," the king murmured. "But the blade will still break."

The Seer whispered, "She's no longer just a girl. She's becoming something more."

The king smiled, cruel and bright.

"Good. That means it will hurt more when I burn it all to the ground."