[ Dominion Vaults – Sanctum of Flame ]

Deep beneath the capital’s throne circle, sealed by runes older than nations, lay the Sanctum of Flame—a hallowed proving ground where only the most elite thronebearers were granted access.

Few returned unchanged.

Fewer still returned alive.

Now, Lucien Caelum was being escorted to its gates.

Not by invitation…

But by summons.

[ Before the Descent ]

Elysia walked beside him, her face pale in the torchlight.

“This is madness,” she whispered. “No unranked pactservant has ever been summoned for Flame Proving. They’re trying to erase you.”

Lucien offered her a calm look. “Then let them try.”

She stopped. “What if they trap you inside?”

Lucien adjusted his gloves.

“I’ve lived in darker prisons than this.”

She gritted her teeth. “I can call it off. I—”

He placed a hand lightly over hers.

“Don’t.”

“If they wish to measure my flame… I’ll show them a fire they forgot how to fear.”

[ The Gate Opens ]

The sealed archway glowed with interlocked flame runes. Four High Wardens stood in ceremonial armor, their staffs crossed until the sigil flared open.

Beyond the threshold, only darkness.

Lucien stepped through.

The gates closed.

[ The Proving Begins – Chamber I: The Mirrorflame ]

The first room was a circle of mirrors. Thousands of reflections danced around Lucien—each one showing a different version of himself.

Young. Old. Mad. Hollow. Crowned.

One stepped forward.

“You are not meant to exist.”

Lucien studied it calmly. “Neither are lies. Yet here you stand.”

The mirror version snarled and struck—but as it lunged, Lucien stepped aside, and its reflection shattered.

Truth does not rage, Lucien thought, it waits to be remembered.

The chamber ignited.

He walked on.

[ Chamber II: The Pactfire Maw ]

Flames surged from the ground, forming the twisted face of a beast—a Flame Maw, a sentient trialborn construct. It hissed in ancient tongue:

“WHAT THRONE DO YOU CLAIM?”

Lucien answered, voice even.

“None.”

“THEN WHAT BURNS IN YOUR VEINS?”

“Memory.”

The Flame Maw lunged. Lucien raised a single hand.

From his shadow rose Thorne, jaws open in a silent howl.

SNAP.

Flame met void. The Maw froze mid-bite.

Then recoiled. It bowed.

“FORGOTTEN KING…”

“YOU MAY PASS.”

[ Final Chamber: The Throneforge Flame ]

In a circular chamber lined with hanging embers, the Flame Core hovered: the living fire of the Dominion, used to brand all noble thrones with their crests. Pure, primal, judgmental.

Lucien stood before it.

A voice echoed—not aloud, but into his mind.

“Name your house.”

“None.”

“Declare your flame.”

“I carry the Hollow. I carry what remains.”

“You seek branding?”

Lucien stepped forward.

“I seek to burn back.”

“Not to belong.”

“But to be seen.”

The Flame flared.

It surged upward, bathing Lucien in white heat.

Any other soul would have been incinerated.

But as the blaze rose—

It did not consume him.

It twisted around him.

The embers pulled inward, shaping… something new.

A brand.

But not of fire.

Of shadow.

Of unseen flame.

At last, the light dimmed.

And on Lucien’s chest, beneath his coat, a new sigil had formed:

A crownless circle, etched in ash and ember.

[ Outside – Hours Later ]

The wardens stood in silent anticipation.

The gates hissed open—

—and Lucien stepped through.

Unburned. Unchanged.

Except for the flame trailing faintly from his coat hem… glowing grey.

Unnatural.

Forgotten.

The wardens knelt instinctively, something primal in their bones stirring at his presence.

Lucien ignored them.

He walked to Elysia, who stared wide-eyed.

“They branded you?”

He nodded once.

“Then… what flame did you bear?”

Lucien met her eyes.

“The one that outlives all others.”

“The Flame of Memory.”

[ Epilogue – Mirrorborn Archive ]

High within the Tower of Glass, the Mirrorborn watched the flames flicker.

A younger acolyte stepped forward.

“His brand doesn’t match any in the archives.”

The archivist whispered:

“That’s because it predates them.”