The sharp clack of wooden swords echoed through the open courtyard, between stone columns and the shifting shadows cast by the upper terraces.

  Alister Kelanor, newly turned fifteen, was sweating beneath his training armor. His breath came in heavy bursts. His arms already held some strength, but his frame still bore the signs of someone who had grown too quickly — under expectations that the world had placed far too early upon his shoulders.

  In front of him stood Sir Elrond, a seasoned veteran of the Royal Guard. His face was lined with old scars, and his gaze was the kind that saw everything — without needing many words.

  “Again,” Elrond said, calm and unyielding — the kind of calm that did not bargain with exhaustion.

  Alister spun the wooden sword in his hands and lunged. The strike was clean. Elrond blocked it effortlessly. The boy stepped back, caught his breath, and tried again — more force, more drive.

  Then it happened.

  Flames burst from Alister’s arms. Crimson and fierce, with the glow of a forge’s heart. The air turned blisteringly hot in an instant. Fire climbed up from his wrists, across his shoulders, and into his chest — wild, uncontrolled.

  “Alister!” Elrond called out.

  Too late.

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  The attendants watching from a distance stepped back in fear. Heat spread rapidly through the courtyard. The stone beneath their feet seemed to hum.

  It wasn’t just mana. It was the Flame of the Phoenix — the raw, unbound power of House Kelanor awakening.

  Alister collapsed to his knees. Sweat poured down his face. The flames died out slowly, leaving his training tunic scorched. The boy was pale, breathless.

  One of the servants rushed over with a basin of water and a clean towel.

  “Lord Alister… your mother sent word. She requests your return to the academy this afternoon.”

  Alister took the towel and wiped his face with restrained anger.

  “Of course. The academy. While she’s out there… marching to war.”

  Elrond stepped closer, arms crossed.

  “I understand your frustration. But you’re not ready yet.”

  “I could help,” Alister snapped. “I could be out there — learning something real. Not locked away with scrolls, listening to lectures about things that never happen outside books.”

  Elrond met his gaze without flinching.

  “War is not where you go to learn how to be useful. It’s where you die if you don’t already know what you’re doing.”

  Alister was quiet for a moment. His fists clenched. His jaw trembled, but he would not cry.

  “I’m a Kelanor. I have the flame.”

  “And you nearly burned yourself with it today,” Elrond said, his tone unchanged. “The power you carry… it can raise armies — or destroy everything around you. If you don’t learn to control it, you’ll be just another noble tragedy with a coat of arms.”

  The boy lowered his eyes. He wanted to scream. Or run. Or disappear. But he remained seated there, on the courtyard floor, breathing in the lingering scent of smoke.

  “It’s not easy,” he murmured.

  Elrond knelt beside him, and his voice softened:

  “Nothing worthwhile ever is. And your place in this world will be great — but only if you survive long enough to reach it.”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then, Alister scooped up some water and washed his face. Slowly, he stood.

  The fire had faded.

  But his eyes still burned.