The world returned in fragments.
Pain first — a bone-deep ache that made breathing hurt.
Then sound — the distant rush of water, a whisper of wind.
Then light — harsh, blinding.
Caelen forced his eyes open.
He lay on cold stone, still inside the Gauntlet's chamber — but it was different now.
The walls were gone.
The ceiling stretched into a vast, starless sky.
He wasn't alone.
Standing above him was Velric.
And next to Velric — the Magisters.
All seven.
Robed figures, each face hidden behind masks of silver, gold, obsidian.
Watching.
Waiting.
Caelen pushed himself upright, swaying.
The silver crown still rested on his head — light as a feather, heavy as a mountain.
Velric spoke.
"Congratulations, Crownbearer."
His voice was dry, almost bored.
"You have survived where others fell. You have proven strength, cunning, and will."
Caelen didn't answer.
His throat was raw. His heart still raced from the visions.
Velric continued:
"You have seen what lies ahead. The War of Ash and Bone. The Sundering of Kingdoms. The Rise of the Nameless King."
The Magisters' masks reflected Caelen's broken reflection back at him.
"And you," Velric said, "stand at the center."
A pause.
"You must choose."
A hollow silence.
Caelen's voice cracked when he finally spoke:
"Choose what?"
Velric smiled — a terrible thing.
"Whether to defend this dying world… or remake it."
The crown pulsed.
Inside him, Ashara purred:
Choose me, little ember. Together, we will build a world worthy of power.
Caelen staggered to his feet.
He looked around — at the endless sky, the broken world.
He thought of the Academy — the corruption, the cruelty.
He thought of the boy who had once believed he could be a hero.
Was there anything left to save?
⸻
Velric stepped closer.
"The world is a carcass," he said softly. "Rotting from within. Nobles hoard wealth. Magisters hoard magic. The poor starve in the streets."
He gestured to the empty sky.
"The gods have abandoned us."
Another step.
"Be their replacement."
Caelen's fists clenched.
Another memory surfaced — his mother's voice, harsh but full of love:
"Be better than them, Cael. Even when it hurts. Especially then."
His jaw tightened.
Ashara's whisper coiled around him.
Forget their weakness. Forge something new. Be the flame.
Two futures stretched before him.
One bathed in blood and fire — ruling by right of strength.
The other full of sacrifice, of struggle, of uncertain hope.
He could almost taste the power.
The crown burned hotter against his brow.
Velric waited.
The Magisters waited.
The world waited.
Caelen closed his eyes.
Made his choice.
⸻
"I won't be your weapon," he said.
His voice was steady now. Clear.
Velric's smile thinned.
"So be it."
The Magisters raised their hands.
Power gathered — a tsunami of magic crashing toward Caelen.
They had never intended to let him leave.
Not if he refused them.
Not if he chose hope over dominion.
Caelen tore the crown from his head — threw it aside.
It hit the ground with a sound like a bell tolling the end of the world.
He reached inward.
Past the ember.
Past Ashara's coiling temptation.
To the spark that was truly his.
Light flared from within him — blinding, pure.
The Magisters recoiled.
Too late.
Caelen unleashed it.
⸻
The blast shattered the chamber.
Stone ripped apart.
Magic screamed.
The ground buckled.
The Magisters were thrown backward like rag dolls.
Velric managed to stay upright, shielding himself — barely.
Caelen didn't wait.
He ran.
Through the wreckage.
Through the crumbling Academy.
He felt the wards collapsing, the spells unraveling.
The entire mountain groaned, cracking apart.
The Academy — the place that had broken him, built him, nearly destroyed him — was dying.
Good.
Let it burn.
He sprinted through shattered halls, down spiraling stairs.
The surviving Novices — the few who hadn't died in the Gauntlet — fled too, scattering into the night.
Caelen reached the outer gates just as the first tower fell.
Stone and fire rained from the sky.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
⸻
The world beyond the Academy was no safer.
Already, the war had begun.
Smoke smeared the horizon.
Cities burned.
Banners of rival Houses clashed on battlefields.
Kingdoms crumbled.
The prophecy was real.
But it wasn't destiny.
It was choice.
Caelen pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
Somewhere out there were allies — others who had seen the corruption and refused to bow.
He would find them.
He would fight.
Not as a king.
Not as a tyrant.
But as something rarer.
A spark in the dark.
A hope.
Ashara's voice slithered around him.
You cannot stop it, little ember. You will come to me. In time.
Caelen smiled grimly.
"Maybe," he said aloud.
"But not today."
And he walked into the fire.