They left their camps before dawn, the heavens full of stars. The Circle moved silently, their ranks now nearly doubled by newly found Awakened. Young and confused, or grizzled by losses, but all with an inner flame.
Their destination: the Cradle of the First Fire.
No map showed it. No path led there.
Only memories, exchanged with whispers.
It was said, in the old tales, that the Cradle was where fire had originally kissed the mortal world—before cities, before kingdoms. It was where the first Awakened had walked, fire in their hearts and ash beneath their feet.
And now, it was hidden beneath the Veilstone Mountains, guarded by storms and by time.
And something more.
The first portent came two nights ago—lightning that lit the same hill three times in an hour. The second was a storm of blackbirds flying perfect spirals across their camp, eyes shining silver-glow.
"Warding spirits," Virella growled. "The mountain remembers."
Kairo nodded. "Then we walk with respect.".
The terrain grew treacherous. The mountains loomed like jagged teeth, and the air thinned with each passing mile. Ice clung to the rocks, but the flame within the Awakened kept them warm.
Near a narrow ridge, they found remnants of old stone arches—cracked, weathered, and buried in snow. Fire runes barely visible beneath the ice.
"This is it," Elin whispered. "We're close."
They pressed on.
But they were not alone.
The first assault came at dusk—shadows darting under snow, silent and swift.
Ashbound.
Half-male, half-barren, birthed from the corruption of the Ash King. Their bodies were speckled with flame-scars, their eyes lifeless.
They assaulted in silence, their blades encased in shadowsteel.
Chaos erupted on the ridge.
Kairo hurled a wave of fire to drive them back, but the Ashbound did not burn. Not as they should.
Sera fought them sword to sword, shouting orders to protect the children. Virella struck at enemies with cold deadliness. Elin summoned shields of heat and energy.
It wasn't enough.
One of the new Awakened, a youth barely more than fifteen years old, was caught off guard. An Ashbound sword cut across his chest—and he was dead.
Kairo saw it.
Flame ignited in his blood.
The flame burst from him in a roar, spinning into the air. The ice cracked beneath his feet. The Ashbound winced.
And in that moment, he called upon the mountain.
> "By the fire that birthed this world—awaken!"
The ground shook.
Blazes erupted from the cracks.
And from the ice, ancient glyphs flared to life—sigils of the First Flame, slumbering since the Sundering.
The Ashbound screamed.
They were not staying.
And the mountain made that very clear.
When it was finished, the Circle stood bathed in steam and warm stone.
The Cradle had answered.
The mountain had opened.
Before them now was a staircase leading down to warm depths. The walls pulsed with ancient fire—soft, like a heartbeat.
Sera stepped to stand beside Kairo. "It answered you."
He nodded. "It's waiting."
The two went down together.
The Cradle was not a fortress.
It was a womb.
A magnificent crystal cavern of heat, where rivers of molten fire flowed like veins beneath the ground. The walls were aglow with murals—moving murals—that told the story of the birth of the Awakened, the creation of Solareth, and the great betrayal.
In the center of the room was a dais, on which lay a single ember. Small. Glowing.
Alive.
Kairo approached.
And the ember flared into flame.
It sprang up into the air, whirled around his head, and burst outward in a wave of golden light that touched every Awakened in the room.
Each of them felt it—deep, soul-deep.
Not their own memory.
Not their own voice.
> "You are not alone."
> "You never were."
>
Afterward, the Circle reached their decision.
They would build here.
Not just a fortress—but a sanctuary. A place where Awakened could go, learn, meet, and heal.
They would never become an army of destruction.
They would become guardians of the flame.
It was a gradual process, though. Over the next few days, the Cradle began to shift—walls being reconfigured, paths opening up, chambers revealing themselves. It was as if the mountain itself wanted to help.
Work began immediately.
Kairo was everywhere—training, counseling, listening. His fire no longer burned out of control. It flowed now, molded not by anger, but by intent.
And he was not alone.
The Awakened had begun to find themselves.
Virella had created a hawk and mirrored crystal watch network. Sera instructed new warriors flame-dance techniques. Elin cracked the Cradle's records, revealing ancient secrets.
And the ember at the mountain's center? It never diminished in light.
But peace was not absolute.
One night, Kairo stood alone, looking down into the valley below.
He felt it before he saw it—a quiver in the flame. A discordant note.
A warning.
He closed his eyes.
And in his mind, he saw the Ash King—sitting atop a spire of black, fire in one hand, darkness in the other.
Looking at him.
Waiting.
> "The war has begun," Kairo whispered.
And at his back, the Cradle pulsed once more—waiting.