Night fell like a thick shroud across the highlands, painting the peaks of the Nahran Mountains in shadow. A wide hollow ringed with ancient standing stones pulsed with the flickering heartbeat of fire. At its center, seated cross-legged upon scorched earth and ash-dusted bones, was Jackie.
He was shirtless, tribal paint smeared across his chest and arms in crimson spirals—the mark of the Flameborn trial. His breath came slow and steady, yet sweat rolled down his back in rivulets, hissing as it struck the ember-cracked ground. Before him floated the Heartstone—a fiery gem the size of a clenched fist, burning with veins of living magma. It hovered inches from his chest, drawn by bloodright alone.
Wolfflame must not remain a weapon. It must become your will.
The voice of the mountain mystic echoed in Jackie's thoughts. He held his breath, forcing stillness upon the storm inside. But the flames didn't obey.
They roared, leaping higher around the circle's edge, licking at the stones with tongues of gold and blue. This was no ordinary fire. This was the Trial of the Ancestors—a rite sacred to the Emberclad, whispered about in huntsong and prayer-drum. Only those with the Wolfflame bloodline could attempt it. Fewer survived it.
Jackie's goal was clear: bind the Heartstone's core essence to his inner fire and ascend to true Wolfflame mastery. Not just sparks or bursts. Full elemental attunement. The rite's reward was immense—new bloodline channels would unlock, muscles woven with fire-thread, instincts sharpened to volcanic precision.
But as the hours dragged on, and the stone pulsed hotter against his chest, Jackie felt himself nearing collapse. The flames resisted his every effort to command them. They responded to his pain, his fear—not his will.
Why won't you yield? he thought, fists clenched. I am your heir. My blood bears your mark.
A sudden flare surged up, singeing the edge of his braided hair. Jackie flinched but did not cry out.
From beyond the ring, cloaked shadows watched. Elders of the Neri tribe, sent by Chief Ralgar to witness the trial's outcome. Among them stood Yara, her arms crossed, a worried furrow in her brow. The winds caught her braided hair and tribal feathers, but her gaze never left Jackie.
The flames cracked. Jackie's left hand trembled. His breathing faltered. Beneath him, the earth shivered.
He's faltering, came a whisper from the elders.
Yara's fists clenched. "He won't fail. He can't."
Jackie opened his eyes.
The world burned in every direction—blades of fire, spirals of heat, coals glowing in sacred symbols beneath his knees. And at the center of it all pulsed the Heartstone.
His heart beat in rhythm with it now. Slower. Deeper. Each thrum sent a ripple of heat through his veins. But he needed more.
He had to stop resisting.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Jackie placed his palm against the Heartstone.
Pain.
Agony lashed up his arm like a whip of molten iron. He ground his teeth but did not scream. Instead, he reached deeper—into his bloodline.
The Wolfflame core slept near his heart, a coiled ember born from his father's side. He visualized it—wrapped in chains of fear, doubt, memory.
He whispered the mantra of the Flameborn under his breath:
"Burn not to destroy. Burn to become."
Then he tore open the chains.
A blinding heat surged through his spirit. For a heartbeat, the world turned white.
The fire roared—no longer wild, but alive. From the center of the pit, flames twisted upward, rising in a spiraling column.
A serpent of fire burst into being—massive, coiling through the air with a hiss that shook the stones. Its body glowed with runes only bloodline heirs could see—runes of origin, of guardianship, of old, terrible power.
Gasps rippled from the elders.
Jackie stood—bare-chested, fire reflected in his eyes—and raised his right hand. The serpent paused, coiled in midair, its molten eyes locked with his.
"Yield," Jackie commanded. His voice did not waver.
The flame serpent bowed its head.
Power raced through Jackie's limbs. The Heartstone melted into his palm, threads of golden fire crawling up his veins like living tattoos. His scars glowed red-hot, then settled into a steady ember-hue.
He felt his Flame Sense widen—he could feel heat across the entire ring, sense every flicker of emotion in the firelight. His muscles tightened as the Volcanic Endurance trait activated, making his flesh resistant to extreme heat and exhaustion. The ground no longer burned his feet. He belonged in the fire now.
More than that, he was the fire.
Yara's breath caught as she saw the transformation. "By the Spirits…"
The serpent dissolved into motes of golden ash that settled on Jackie's shoulders like a blessing.
And then—silence.
The fires died down, retreating into the symbols and stones. Only faint embers remained, casting a warm glow across the scorched ring. Jackie stood alone at the center, smoke rising from his skin, eyes like molten gold.
He had passed.
The eldest among the council, draped in bone charms and stag-hide, stepped forward. His name was Koru the Flamekeeper, the tribe's memory-holder.
He bowed low. "The fire has accepted you, Jackie of Clan Urgral. You are no longer an initiate. You are a Flameforged."
Jackie exhaled, shoulders relaxing for the first time. His skin still burned, but it was the kind of burn that carved power, not pain.
Yara ran forward and caught him before his legs could give out.
"You did it," she whispered.
"I nearly didn't." Jackie's voice was hoarse. "The flames wanted to consume me."
"But they didn't," she said, her brow pressed to his. "You bent them."
He gave her a tired smile, but something else tugged at the edge of his senses. A shadow in the flame's afterglow.
"Did… you see the serpent?" he asked.
Yara nodded. "We all did. That was no simple manifestation."
"No," Jackie agreed. "It left something behind."
Far from the ring, in the shadows beyond the sacred stones, a pair of eyes narrowed.
Warrik, a flame-wielder from the Emberclad's warrior caste, watched with clenched fists. He bore the bloodline too, but his fire had never summoned such power. For weeks now, Jackie had been climbing in status, winning over the elders, drawing Yara close. It grated on him like flint against tooth.
"He shouldn't have passed," Warrik muttered.
Beside him, a hooded figure in foreign garb said nothing. Only smiled.
"Then perhaps," the stranger said, "he deserves… another test."
That night, Jackie sat alone atop a stone slab outside the elders' lodge, staring into the embers of a dying torch.
His body was still flushed with the aftershocks of awakening. Every heartbeat felt like a drumbeat in a volcano's cave.
Then the wind shifted.
A single black feather fell from the sky, landing at his feet. It smoldered, and from within its curling ash, a whisper echoed.
"The fire yields, but the storm comes."
Jackie looked up.
Storm clouds loomed on the horizon, and in them danced lightning not of this world.
End of Chapter 40