The flames hadn’t left me.

Even after the vision faded… the heat clung to my bones.

That boy—

The one from the battlefield.

Crowned. Drenched in ash.

He knew something. Something the priest hadn’t told me.

And I knew where to start looking.

“You wish to leave the Sanctum?” the High Priest asked.

“No,” I said. “I need to.”

His gaze was sharp. “You’re not ready.”

“Then you should have left me to burn.”

He didn’t argue.

That scared me more than any refusal.

The vault was real.

Buried beneath the Black Chapel ruins—far from the throne hall, and farther still from anything the nobles cared to remember.

The priest sent no escort.

Only a map.

And a warning:

“Whatever answers you find… the crown may not want you to have them.”

[Vault of the First Flame – Midnight]

The air shifted the moment I crossed the threshold.

Heavy.

Dry.

Scented with metal and charred bone.

The stone steps spiraled down into blackness.

No torches.

No symbols.

Only a single line carved into the wall near the bottom:

Only those burned may wield what burns.

I reached the chamber after what felt like hours.

Circular.

Silent.

At the center — the sword.

Floating.

Just like in the vision.

Twisted black metal. Gold veins running through its blade like lightning frozen in time.

But I wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped out from the shadows.

Cloaked in grey.

Eyes hidden beneath a scorched hood.

And around their neck—a shattered crown fragment.

“I knew you’d come,” they said, voice smooth like smoke.

“You’re from the court?” I asked.

They laughed softly.

“No. I’m older than your court. And smarter than your priest.”

“Then what are you?”

“I am the one the sword refused.”

They stepped forward.

“If you take that weapon… it will devour you. Like it tried to devour me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To make sure it doesn’t choose you.”

Lightning flared from their palm.

Magic—not golden, but blue-black. Raw. Rotten.

“Let’s see what the crown really thinks of you.”

 [Combat – Crown vs. Crownless]

They moved first—fast, fast enough to blur.

I barely raised a shield of golden flame before their strike cracked the stone at my feet.

My ribs rattled. I stumbled.

The crown screamed.

Burn him. Take what’s yours.

I clenched my jaw.

Raised my hand.

And for the first time… the sword moved.

It floated toward me.

Not slow.

Not hesitant.

Like it had been waiting.

I grabbed the hilt.

White-hot agony raced through my arm.

But I didn’t let go.

The flames roared.

A column of gold erupted around me—blinding, violent, furious.

The other figure snarled—

Shielded their face—

And vanished into smoke.

When the light dimmed… the sword was in my hand.

Heavy. Silent. Alive.

I wasn’t sure what it had cost me.

Only that I couldn’t feel my left arm anymore.

“You weren’t supposed to take it,” the priest whispered when I returned.

“I didn’t take it,” I said quietly.

“It came.”