One Year Beneath the Ember Sky

The seasons changed, but for Tian Qiren, time didn't move forward — it just pressed down harder.

A year had passed since he'd awoken in this sect hidden deep within Luhuo Hollow Sect . A year since the fire, the beast, the pendant's strange flicker. And yet, despite all that thunderous beginning, his life had become something painfully quiet.

His room was little more than a cold cell carved into the stone slope, a place for workers, not disciples. The ember runes etched into the walls pulsed softly at night — his only companions. He wasn't part of the sect, not truly. He carried no crest. No uniform mark. Just the memories and a burden that whispered in his dreams.

They didn't know what to make of him.

So, they feared him.

They called him names: Ghostfire, Ashborne, Curse-child. They whispered about the explosion that had ripped the sky above the outer ridge. Some believed it was an omen. Others believed he should have died that day.

When they weren't whispering, they were testing him. Tripping him as he walked by. Spoiling his rice. Leaving his robes slashed and frozen in the night. No one told them to stop. Even the instructors turned away with careful silence.

Qiren didn't fight back.

Not because he couldn't. But because part of him feared what would happen if he did.

So he worked.

Every day.

Hauling buckets. Scrubbing old floor runes until his knuckles bled. Feeding spirit wolves in the colder pens. He became just another shadow along the edge of the sect's mountain halls. Not a disciple. Not a prisoner. Just a stain they hadn't scrubbed out yet.

But even shadows are watched.

Yan Yue never joined the others. She never laughed at the rumors or added weight to his shoulders. Sometimes she'd pass him without a word, her eyes distant. But there were moments. Small ones.

A clean cloth left by his door after his hands blistered.

A bit of bread when the kitchens "forgot" his meal.

A quiet "thank you" when their paths crossed during cleaning duty.

They never talked for long. And when she asked — once — how he endured, he only said, "I manage."

But he remembered those moments.

Especially in winter, when the winds howled through the Gorge and ice crept into the stone of his bones. He would sit beside the little shrine he carved — not a god's altar, just a stack of stones with his mother's pendant looped around the top when he didn't wear it — and whisper nothing to no one.

And the pendant? It stayed cold. It never flared again. But some nights, when the rain pounded the roof like a war drum, he felt like it was listening.

The others in the sect didn't stop watching either. Especially some of the elders. From windows. From balconies. Some took notes. None approached. Like he was a relic they didn't dare touch.

He got used to it.

Or at least, he learned how to endure it.

Until the note came.

Pinned to his door one fog-choked evening. Written on thick parchment in dark ink — not formal calligraphy, but precise. It read:

"The Elder calls. Come to the Ember Pavilion at moonrise."

No seal. No explanation. Just expectation.

Qiren stared at the message for a long time, the cold wind tugging at the edges of his robe.

Then he tucked it into his sleeve, washed his face, and put on the cleanest thing he owned. His fingers tied the pendant around his neck with a quiet care.

He stepped out into the cold, lanterns flickering along the path down the inner corridor. The stone beneath his feet felt heavier tonight.

He passed Yan Yue on the lower terrace. She didn't speak at first. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching him.

"They don't call unless they want something," she said, finally.

He stopped, looked at her. Her eyes weren't cruel. Just careful.

"Then let's see what they want," he replied.

Their eyes met for just a second longer. Not warmth. Not trust. But something that almost lived in between.

Then he walked on, wind tugging at his sleeves, the pendant cool and silent at his chest.

The Ember Pavilion loomed ahead, lit by lanterns that didn't sway in the breeze. It waited, silent and still — and somewhere inside, so did Elder Nianshu.

And as Qiren stepped into the threshold, the last breath of mountain air followed him like a warning.