The iron doors of the Core’s tribunal chamber slammed shut behind Pag with a sound like a tomb being sealed.

  He stood alone in the center of the vast, circular hall. Stone pillars ringed the perimeter, carved with the histories of Draggor's bloodiest wars. Cold blue light spilled from the vaulted ceiling, giving everything a hollow, funereal glow.

  High above him, seated on a dais of black stone, the Core's Tribunal waited.

  Three Arbiters in heavy armor, their faces hidden behind burnished visors.

  Two Master Magi, their robes threaded with silver and sigils that glowed faintly.

  And Commander Vaelen himself, standing grim and silent beside the throne.

  Pag shifted his weight slightly, the aches from the ambush still throbbing under his cracked skin. The faint ember inside him pulsed—silent, waiting.

  Vaelen's voice rang out, cold and formal.

  "Pag. Initiate of the Arcane Core. You stand accused of unauthorized deployment of catastrophic magic within operational proximity of allied forces, loss of classified assets, and reckless endangerment of sovereign property."

  Pag swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

  "You stand also," Vaelen continued, "on the brink of something far more dangerous."

  One of the Master Magi leaned forward, steepling her fingers.

  "You are Emberkin," she said. "An unstable bloodline. A threat not merely to enemies of the Crown... but to the Crown itself."

  The words hit like hammer-blows.

  Pag clenched his fists.

  He remembered the feeling — when the ember had taken over — remembered the terror in Ellen’s eyes, the fear he'd seen even in Borin and Faelan.

  He could be a weapon.

  Or a catastrophe.

  The Arbiter seated in the center—their armor inlaid with gold—spoke, voice hollow from behind the visor.

  "You have two choices," they said.

  "Swear yourself to the Emberkin path. Accept training. Master your fire—or be destroyed before your flame spreads beyond our ability to control."

  Pag stared up at them, heart thundering.

  The silence stretched.

  His instincts screamed for him to run. To fight. To deny them the leash they were offering.

  But a small, stubborn ember inside him whispered another truth.

  You are not done yet.

  Pag straightened his shoulders.

  "I'll master it," he said, voice rough but steady. "I’ll take control."

  A murmur ran through the tribunal.

  The gold-inlaid Arbiter raised a hand for silence.

  "You have until the next blood moon to prove your loyalty to the Crown," they said. "Fail... and you will be declared rogue."

  The words hung heavy in the cold air.

  Before Pag could answer, a figure stepped forward from the shadowed edge of the hall.

  Tall, cloaked, with a slight but unmistakable limp.

  A presence that radiated dangerous stillness.

  Meowtimer.

  The Altacian warrior—one of the few non-Draggor elite ever allowed within the Core’s walls. His fur, midnight black with streaks of grey, caught the blue light in shifting patterns. His golden eyes gleamed with something between amusement and deadly seriousness.

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  He bowed low—mockingly low—before the tribunal.

  "Forgive the intrusion," Meowtimer said, his voice purring with subtle menace. "But I would stake my reputation on this one."

  The tribunal stirred uneasily.

  "You vouch for him?" Vaelen asked, eyes narrowing.

  "I do," Meowtimer said, straightening. His tail flicked lazily once, but Pag could feel the tension burning under the Altacian's calm exterior.

  "If the Emberkin is to rise again," Meowtimer continued, "then let him rise under a hand that remembers the cost of failure."

  Pag stared at him, stunned.

  Meowtimer met his gaze—and in those molten gold eyes, Pag saw not pity, not fear—but expectation.

  "You'll train me?" Pag asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Meowtimer grinned—a sharp, wild thing full of teeth.

  "I'll break you," he said. "Then I'll teach you to burn the right way."

  The tribunal deliberated in a brief, whispered exchange.

  Finally, the central Arbiter nodded.

  "So be it," they intoned. "Meowtimer, you assume personal responsibility for the Emberkin’s progress."

  The Altacian bowed again, this time genuine.

  Pag's legs almost gave out from relief—but he stayed upright.

  He had a chance.

  A brutal, uncertain, agonizing chance.

  But a chance.

  Commander Vaelen’s voice cut through the chamber one final time.

  "Training begins at first light," he said. "Pray you survive it."

  The iron doors swung open once more, and the icy air of the Arcane Core’s underhalls spilled inward.

  Pag turned to follow Meowtimer into the shadows beyond.

  The real trial had just begun.

  The training grounds lay deep beneath the Arcane Core—hidden beneath layers of stone and sigil-locked gates. A place meant not for recruits or common soldiers, but for the shaping of true weapons.

  Pag stood at the center of a wide, circular chamber carved from black basalt. Pillars of cracked stone loomed around him. Overhead, the ceiling was open to a shaft of bleak morning light that barely touched the gloom.

  Waiting for him, arms folded and tail twitching lazily, was Meowtimer.

  The Altacian's silhouette blurred slightly in the rising heat. The air around him shimmered, as if the ground itself feared to touch him for too long.

  Pag swallowed.

  His heart was still battered from the trial. His mana was a raw, aching thing. And yet he felt the ember inside him—awake, alert, sensing the danger, the challenge.

  Meowtimer tilted his head slightly.

  "You survived the Core’s tribunal," he said casually. "Good. That was the easy part."

  He stepped closer, and the faint scent of scorched stone followed him.

  "I am Meowtimer. Sage of the Pyroclasm," he continued, voice smooth but carrying an iron edge. "Once, long ago, when the Emberkin still walked these lands as kings and monsters, I hunted them. Studied them. Learned their truths."

  He smiled without warmth.

  "And now, perhaps, I will teach you."

  Pag nodded stiffly.

  "How do we start?" he asked.

  Meowtimer’s eyes gleamed.

  "We start," he said, "by seeing if you are worth the effort."

  Without warning, the Altacian struck.

  The world became pain.

  Meowtimer moved faster than Pag could track—one moment standing still, the next a blur of claws and flame. Pag barely twisted aside as a gout of white-hot fire slashed past his face, singing his hair.

  No incantations. No preparation. Just pure, brutal aggression.

  Pag staggered back, instinctively throwing up a shield of compressed heat.

  Meowtimer shattered it with a flick of his paw, the impact ringing through Pag’s bones.

  "You rely on reflex!" Meowtimer barked, voice cutting through the chaos. "Not mastery!"

  Pag gritted his teeth, lunged forward, trying to unleash a counter-blast of flame.

  Meowtimer spun, tail whipping around to trip Pag mid-cast. Pag slammed into the stone floor hard enough to see stars.

  He forced himself up.

  Gathered the ember.

  And this time, it responded.

  A jet of searing blue-white flame erupted from his palm, lancing toward Meowtimer with bone-melting heat.

  The Altacian smiled—and walked through it.

  Pag blinked in disbelief.

  The fire parted around Meowtimer’s body like water around stone, not even singing his black and silver fur.

  "The flame is yours," Meowtimer said calmly, stepping closer. "But you are not yet its master."

  He drove a palm into Pag’s chest—not hard, but precise.

  Pag's body seized as the ember flared uncontrollably.

  For a heartbeat, his skin cracked again, the blue-white fire pouring from the fissures, the same terrifying eruption he had barely survived during the ambush.

  "STOP IT!" Pag screamed, clutching at the fire trying to tear free of him.

  Meowtimer's voice cracked across the space.

  "Control is not about suppression!" he roared. "It is about acceptance!"

  Pag dropped to one knee, shaking.

  The flames flickered, fighting him.

  "Fear binds you," Meowtimer said, circling. "Fear blinds you. Fear will kill everyone you try to protect."

  He stopped directly in front of Pag, lowering his voice to a low, rumbling growl.

  "Your blood is a forge. Your soul, a crucible. If you cannot endure the burning, then you are not worthy to wield the Emberkin’s power."

  Pag gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

  He wanted to lash out.

  He wanted to scream.

  But instead, he closed his eyes.

  And for the first time—not fighting the ember, not suppressing it—he listened.

  The raging fire inside him wasn’t mindless.

  It wasn't hatred.

  It was hunger.

  It was purpose.

  It was desire to be shaped.

  Pag exhaled slowly.

  The flames receded—just slightly—enough that his skin stopped cracking, enough that the training room no longer smoldered under his bare feet.

  When he opened his eyes, Meowtimer was watching him with unreadable golden slits.

  "Good," the Altacian said, voice softer now. "Again."

  Pag staggered upright, sweat streaming down his face.

  Again?

  He had barely survived.

  And yet...

  Somewhere inside, the ember pulsed—not with hunger this time.

  But with recognition.

  Pag nodded.

  "Again," he said.

  The sun rose high over the Arcane Core, casting a faint, weak light into the training depths.

  And for the first time in his life, Pag began not to be ruled by his fire—

  —but to shape it.

  Even if it meant burning himself to do it.