Rumors of the Flamebound

Ruvan sat in the darkest corner of the tavern, hood pulled low over his eyes. Smoke from a dozen guttering tallow candles curled around the rafters, mixing with the sharp bite of sour ale and sweat. The din of conversation rose and fell like a restless sea – merchants haggling over caravan permits, mercenaries bragging about kills, beggars muttering prayers for coin.

He tried not to flinch each time someone shouted or laughed too loud. Ever since entering Iron Hold, his senses felt raw. The city's clamour scraped against something inside him that wanted silence, wanted stillness – wanted to run back to the forest where only the wind whispered his name.

But there was no forest to run back to anymore.

At the next table, Elion leaned forward, his staff resting across his knees. Kellan lounged beside him, boots up on a broken stool, nursing a chipped mug of dark ale. The mercenary's eyes flicked warily across the room with practiced ease.

"Stop glaring at everyone like you're waiting to slit their throats," Elion murmured.

Kellan snorted. "That's only because I am."

Ruvan ignored them both. His focus was locked on the group of soldiers seated near the bar. Their black and crimson tabards marked them as Maeven's men. They spoke loudly, words slurred by drink, oblivious to the wary silence spreading around them.

"…told you she's back," one soldier said, slamming down his mug with a thud. "Thera Veyn herself. The Ember-Born."

Another soldier leaned in, eyes wide with drunken awe. "No flame ever burned her. That's what they say."

"She's competing in the Trials, you fool," the first soldier retorted. "Wouldn't be here otherwise. Flamebound Trials start tomorrow at first bell. Whole city's talking."

A third soldier – older, with a scar carved across his cheek – laughed harshly. "Let her win. Lord Maeven will break her like he breaks them all. No one defies the Warden King."

Their laughter grated against Ruvan's ears. He felt Solrend's weight at his back, pulsing faintly in time with his tightening heartbeat.

Thera Veyn.

He didn't know why the name sparked something fierce and hot in his chest. He had never met her, but he had heard her name whispered even in his village before it burned. The Ember-Born. The girl who walked through fire unburned. A warrior, a rebel, a legend half-formed in war's shadow.

"Flamebound Trials?" Elion repeated under his breath, glancing at Ruvan. "What are those?"

"Gladiator pits," Kellan muttered. "But worse. Competitors are forced to fight wielders of flame magic – those who survive win freedom, coin, or a place in Maeven's guard."

"And Thera is fighting in them?" Elion asked.

Kellan shrugged. "Apparently."

Ruvan said nothing. He watched the soldiers finish their drinks and stagger out, leaving half-empty mugs and the smell of stale sweat behind. Around the tavern, conversation resumed in cautious murmurs.

He turned his gaze to Elion and Kellan.

"I need to see her," he said quietly.

Elion frowned. "We came here for answers about Solrend. Not to watch blood sport."

"Thera Veyn is not blood sport," Kellan said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "She's the reason half the outlying villages haven't fallen to Maeven yet. She's a symbol. A flame refusing to die out."

Ruvan clenched his fists on the table. Splinters bit into his palms, grounding him in the present.

"She's fighting tomorrow?" he asked.

Kellan nodded. "First bell. Old arena, east district. You can't miss it. The entire city will be there to watch someone burn."

Silence fell between them. Outside, night deepened, and cold wind rattled the warped shutters. Somewhere distant, temple bells tolled midnight prayers, their solemn chime swallowed by Iron Hold's restless dark.

Elion sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. If we're going, we should leave before dawn to find seats."

Kellan grinned faintly. "That's the spirit, healer."

But Ruvan barely heard them. His thoughts burned with Thera's name. The Ember-Born. A woman forged in flame. He felt Solrend hum softly at his back as if recognising something kindred.

Fire calls to fire.

He closed his eyes, letting the tavern's clamour fade into the dark corners of his mind. For the first time in days, his fear coiled into something sharper – a quiet, determined resolve.

Tomorrow, he would see Thera Veyn with his own eyes.

And perhaps, in her fire, he would find the strength to wield his own.

Morning came grey and bitterly cold. They left the tavern before dawn, joining crowds streaming towards the east district. Iron Hold's streets were alive with noise – merchants setting up stalls to sell roasted chestnuts, fried rootcakes, and hot spiced ale to those heading to the arena.

As they walked, Ruvan felt Solrend pulse at his back. Each step felt heavier than the last, the blade's whispers curling through his thoughts.

She burns brightly. She will burn out. All flames do.

He clenched his jaw and ignored it. For once, he refused to listen.

The streets widened as they approached the arena. Massive stone arches loomed overhead, carved with ancient runes now half-buried in soot and moss. Guards checked papers and searched weapons at the gates, letting in nobles draped in furs alongside beggars who'd scraped enough coin to witness blood.

They merged with the crowd, drawn forward by the press of bodies and the rising roar from within. Drums thundered behind the walls, shaking dust from the high arches. The scent of smoke, sweat, and blood filled Ruvan's nostrils. He felt a tremor of nausea rise in his chest.

Beside him, Kellan placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Stay sharp. They'll pick pockets and cut throats in crowds like these."

Elion walked close on his other side, his staff clutched tight. His eyes darted from soldier to soldier with thinly veiled disgust.

"This city is a plague," he muttered.

Ruvan didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the iron gates ahead. On the flickering torchlight within. On the echo of Thera Veyn's name pounding through his mind like a war drum.

The Ember-Born. The unburned.

He stepped forward into the shadow of the arena, into the scent of ash and iron, into a fate he could neither see nor flee.

But deep within, a flicker of hope burned – fierce and stubborn.

And perhaps, he thought, staring at the looming gates,

Perhaps flames are not only meant to destroy.