They didn’t speak as they took me.

Two knights. One priest. No words—just iron grips and silent footsteps echoing through stone corridors. Down… deeper… past the chapel, past the royal tombs, past where the walls still bled with old magic.

I knew fear.

This wasn’t fear.

This was something colder.

The Vault of Embers.

A circle of scorched stone and forgotten names.

"This is where kings were forged," the priest said. "Or burned."

The doors closed behind me. Locked. Sealed.

No way back.

The floor glowed beneath my feet—runes carved long before my name existed. The heat rose fast. The air shimmered.

Then came the whisper.

“Bend. Burn. Or break.”

The first flame lashed out.

I didn’t fight. I couldn’t. My body wasn’t mine anymore. The crown had already sunk too deep.Another flame burst—this one shaped like a man made of memory and fire.

I ran. I fell. My skin burned.

Screams tore from my throat, but they weren’t mine.

They belonged to every king who died here.

"You’re not worthy," the flame said.Maybe it was right. I was just a servant. A thief of scraps. A boy who dared to touch a crown meant for gods.

I crawled.

The flame came closer.And then—The crown pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then light exploded from within me.

Golden fire. Real. Alive.

It didn’t burn me.

It burned everything else.

The flame-creature shrieked. The stone cracked beneath me. The runes dimmed. The Vault trembled.

And I stood.

Not because I was strong.

But because the crown didn’t let me fall.

“He survived?” a voice whispered beyond the walls.

“No,” the priest said. “He changed.”