The chamber beneath the throne was older than anything Caelum had ever seen.
Carved from obsidian and bone-colored stone, it descended deep into the earth like a buried heart. Flames floated in sconces along the walls—not flickering, but held in perfect stillness, as if the fire itself listened.
The woman who had led him here—the Kynari leader, whose name he had learned was Eira—walked ahead in silence. The further they went, the more Caelum could feel the heat under his skin responding, like a chord being plucked in the marrow of his bones.
At last, the corridor opened into a wide, circular hall. Pillars lined the edges, etched with stories. Some were battles. Others, exoduses. All of them told in flame-colored stone, painted with ochre and gold.
At the center of the room stood a massive, circular slab of black glass framed in iron. A mirror, though it reflected nothing.
"This is the Eye of Vell," Eira said softly. "It does not show your face. It shows your place."
"My place?"
"In the world. In the Pattern. In the Burning Line."
Caelum swallowed. "What is the Burning Line?"
She turned to him, and for the first time, he saw a shadow of fear in her expression.
"There is a story," she said, "older than the kingdoms, older than Thornmoor. A prophecy carved into the foundation of this very ruin, left behind by those who came before even us. It speaks of a bloodline that would vanish, only to return when the land stood on the edge of breaking."
Eira walked to the edge of the Eye. Her fingers brushed the iron rim.
"The prophecy says the flame would be born again, not in power or glory, but in exile. A child of the high houses, cast out. Lost. Marked by fire."
Caelum's breath caught.
"And when the wheel turns once more," she continued, "he will be the spark. The one who breaks the order of blood. The one who burns the crown to ash."
Silence rang through the chamber.
"You think I'm that spark," Caelum said. "Because of what I did in the labyrinth."
"Not just that." Eira stepped aside.
The black mirror shimmered, the surface rippling like disturbed water. Slowly, an image formed—not of Caelum, but of fire spiraling out across a map. Thornmoor aflame. A crown split in two. A figure standing atop a cliff, alone, cloaked in red and blue flame.
Caelum stepped back. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"Most prophets don't ask to be born into their story," Eira said. "But the world does not wait for consent."
He turned from the Eye, breath shaking. "You think I'm going to destroy the nobility. The whole system."
"I think you are going to change it. For better or worse... that is for you to decide."
He wanted to scream. To run. To find a quiet place where his hands didn't glow and his name didn't carry weight he hadn't earned. But deep inside, in that place where the fire lived, a question was burning:
What if they were right?
What if the fire in his blood wasn't a curse?
What if it was a key?
---
Later that night, Caelum sat beneath the open sky near the ruins' edge. The stars above were sharp, the air cool. A child from the tribe—a girl with burn scars down her left arm—brought him a bowl of hot broth and sat beside him without a word.
"Do you believe the prophecy?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately. Then: "I believe the world breaks in circles. And maybe you're meant to break one of them."
Caelum looked down at his hands.
The fire had once terrified him.
Now it whispered.
Not of war. Not yet.
But of change.
And he wasn't sure if that made him a savior… or the beginning of the end.