The wind howled through the cliffs like a wounded beast.
Lyra and the protagonist stood at the threshold of the Crescent Shrine, its arched doorway carved into the side of a jagged stone outcrop. The air inside was dry and sharp, tinged with the scent of ancient fire—like ash that had never stopped smoldering.
The protagonist felt Emberfang stir within him again, a low pulse of heat across his spine. Not a warning this time, but anticipation.
"There's something beneath this shrine," he murmured.
Lyra nodded. "They say the Crescent Shrine was more than a temple—it was a vault. The old texts called it Emberglass."
"What's inside?"
"No one knows. Only that it's sealed by memory."
He glanced at her. "Memory?"
"You'll see."
The interior of the shrine was unlike the first. Where the Flame Shrine had been wild, cracked, pulsing with volatile energy, the Crescent Shrine was cold and pristine. Dark glass mosaics lined the walls, each etched with the image of beasts in battle—some radiant, others corrupted. The air shimmered faintly, as though laced with a magic too delicate to be seen.
At the far end of the chamber, a massive door loomed—smooth, black, and sealed by four glowing glyphs.
Lyra stepped forward and placed her hand against it. A thin pulse of light shot out from the glyphs, scanning her palm. The glyphs flickered—then dimmed.
"It needs more than presence," she muttered. "It needs resonance."
The protagonist took a step closer, and without thinking, pressed his own hand to the door.
Instantly, the world shifted.
He wasn't in the shrine anymore.
Instead, he stood in a field of burning flowers beneath a red sky. The ground cracked beneath him, and somewhere in the distance, a tower of flame rose from the horizon like a beacon—or a warning.
He could feel himself moving, but his body wasn't his own. He saw through different eyes—older, weathered, furious. Flames licked at his arms, his breath came in smoke, and in his hand was a blade of obsidian and fire.
"You will never control it," a voice snarled nearby.
A figure stood before him: cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a twisted metal mask. The Seared One.
"I don't need control," his own voice replied, warped and rough. "I need truth."
The Seared One lunged.
And the vision ended.
The protagonist staggered backward, blinking as the shrine returned to view.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Lyra asked.
He nodded, rubbing his eyes. "A memory. Not mine. Someone who tried to open this door before."
"Probably one of the Lost Bearers," she said. "Those who came before us and failed."
He looked at the glyphs. Three remained lit. One had faded.
"So that's it? One memory, one seal."
"Three more to go," Lyra said, her voice quieter now. "And each one will get harder."
They descended deeper into the shrine, through passageways carved into volcanic stone. Emberfang's presence grew warmer with every step. The very walls seemed to hum with restrained energy, like a forge waiting to awaken.
Eventually, they entered a chamber where molten rivers flowed between glass platforms. Suspended above the lava was a crystalline structure—a suspended heart of flickering red light, encased in mirrored stone. Runes circled it like orbiting moons.
"The Emberglass Vault," Lyra whispered.
The protagonist felt heat crawl across his skin. "That's not just a core. That's… alive."
"It's a memory engine," Lyra said, pulling a scroll from her pack. "It stores pieces of people. Of moments. Souls, some believe."
"Souls?"
"Only fragments. Like echoes burned into magic."
As she spoke, a shape emerged from the Vault.
Not solid—an echo. A silhouette made of light and flame, in the form of a man wrapped in armor etched with wolf sigils. His face was obscured, but his voice rang with authority.
"You carry the Flame of Origin. Do you understand what that means?"
The protagonist didn't move. "I'm learning."
"Then know this: the Beasts are not just power. They are choice. Will. Flame can warm or burn. What you become depends on the fire within you."
The figure raised one hand. A door behind the Vault slid open.
"One step closer," the echo said. "But every choice has weight."
Then it vanished.
Silence fell.
They approached the open door and found themselves in a smaller chamber, the walls covered in mirrored glass. As the protagonist stepped inside, his reflection multiplied a hundredfold—each version of himself slightly different.
Some bore weapons he'd never touched. Others wore strange armor, or had eyes that glowed with emberlight.
"This place…" he whispered.
"It's a scrying room," Lyra said. "Used by shrine wardens to see the possible paths ahead. Every flame that burns here shows a version of what might be."
He stepped toward the largest mirror—and froze.
In it, he saw himself standing atop a mountain of ash, wrapped in Emberfang's fire, his body cracked with power. Behind him, cities burned. Before him, people knelt.
Not in fear. In worship.
"Lyra…" he said, his voice hoarse. "I think I saw what happens if I lose control."
She was already standing beside him, her face pale. "You don't become the Seared One."
He turned. "But I could."
They left the chamber in silence, the weight of the reflections heavy on their shoulders.
Back at the door, two glyphs now glowed dimly.
Two more remained.
And then the Vault would open.
Before they could speak, Emberfang spoke within his mind. Not in words, but in feeling—like a distant drumbeat.
Something approaches.
Lyra went still. "Did you feel that?"
He nodded, eyes scanning the corridor.
A screech tore through the air—jagged, metallic, and unnatural. From the shadows behind them, a beast emerged.
Not a chimera. Something worse.
It slithered across the stone like smoke given shape, a long skeletal body covered in jagged runes. Where its eyes should have been, void-crystals pulsed. The air around it shimmered with corrupt magic.
"A Vault Warden," Lyra whispered. "Twisted by the Void."
It lunged.
The protagonist met its strike with a wall of flame, but the creature passed through it like mist. Lyra's blade sliced through one of its limbs, severing it—but it reformed instantly.
"It's not physical!" she shouted. "It's feeding on mana!"
He gritted his teeth, then did something desperate—he opened himself to the Vault.
Energy surged through him, raw and burning. Emberfang roared in his chest.
His body lit with fire, brighter than ever. Not just orange and red—but white-hot, radiant.
The creature screamed as the light hit it, the glow eating through its corrupted form like acid. Lyra joined in, striking at the weak points, her blade now infused with Vault-light.
Together, they pushed the creature back. The shrine trembled. The Vault's core pulsed once—and the final glyphs on the great door flickered.
Then, with a low grinding noise, the Emberglass Vault opened.
Inside was not treasure, or weapons.
It was a star.
A miniature sun, burning in suspension, surrounded by rings of crystal and fractured runes. Around it floated tablets—each one etched with symbols neither of them could read.
The protagonist stepped forward. The heat was immense—but it didn't hurt.
He reached out, and as his fingers brushed the light, a voice echoed in his mind.
"Fire was the first magic. The first choice. And the first betrayal."
He saw glimpses—of other Beasts, other Shrines, other bearers like him. Some victorious. Some ruined. Some… transformed.
The Vault had not just been a prison. It was a library. A crucible.
And he had passed its test.
As the star dimmed, a single tablet floated to him, inscribed in flame.
He caught it.
"What is it?" Lyra asked.
"A path," he said. "To the next shrine."
But deep within the Vault, something stirred. A shadow left behind by the Seared One's touch. It didn't follow them yet.
But it was watching.
Waiting.