The flames in the chamber flickered higher as Brent stepped forward, casting strange shadows that twisted like memories along the stone walls. The air buzzed—not with danger, but with a strange warmth, like standing beneath sunlight after days of rain. The kind of warmth that made things grow.
He held the book tighter, its cover warm now, like skin rather than leather.
"The Hall of the Hidden Flame," he whispered again, voice trembling. "Only the Unmarked may enter. Only the Lost may see."
That voice—whatever it had been—was gone now. But its echo remained. And in that silence, the chamber shifted.
Glyphs lit up beneath Brent's feet, spreading in wide, circular patterns—concentric rings filled with ancient runes, drawn in golden fire. He stumbled back, but the light didn't burn. It welcomed.
This is a summoning circle, he realized. But not for creatures. For… power.
The book flew open in his hands, pages flipping rapidly, faster than wind could turn them. Finally, they stopped on a page marked by the spiral-sun symbol.
And across the glowing parchment, a diagram bloomed—armor formed from light, a sword like crystal and flame, and words that formed slowly in Brent's mind, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place.
The First Path: Luminaris
Light not as weapon—but as shield. Magic not to conquer, but to restore.
The Luminaris channels the Wells of the Hidden Flame to protect the world from darkness—without the need for fire or frost or fury.
Brent's hands trembled as golden light began to rise from the runes beneath him, wrapping around his limbs in thin, glowing threads. His torn shirt, his bruises, his aching ribs—gone, healed, mended. The warmth soaked into his bones, deeper than skin, as if the light was stitching together something that had been unraveling for years.
Then came the voice again. Closer now. Clearer.
"Do you accept the first path, Brent Alder?"
He hesitated.
He thought of Joran and Kallin's sneering fire. Of Rae walking away like he didn't matter. Of every teacher who skipped over his name, every class where he sat silent while others shined. Of his own doubts, deeper and darker than any flame.
But he also thought of the feeling from a moment ago—the calm, the healing, the rightness of it.
This wasn't power born of fear or pride.
This was something older. Something purer.
"I accept," he said.
The circle exploded with light—not violently, but like dawn tearing through fog. Brent gasped as the golden energy surged into him, wrapping his arms in translucent bracers of etched glass and light. A cloak of sun-woven threads of knowledge shimmered briefly across his shoulders before fading into invisibility, leaving only a soft glow on his skin.
He didn't feel stronger.
He felt full. Like he had just absorbed the knowledge of thousands of warriors.
When the light faded, Brent stood alone again in the darkened chamber—but the spiral glyph still pulsed on his chest, like a heartbeat made of starlight.
The book snapped shut.
And this time, when Brent opened his eyes, he was back in the library.
But something had changed.
He could still feel the light beneath his skin. A distant hum. A warmth that wasn't just physical. His physical appearance was morphing into a combination of thousands of other warriors.
And when he looked at his reflection in the darkened glass of the library window, he didn't see anything that he expected. Instead it was his same young appearance as if nothing had changed. Brent felt as if he was in a dream this entire time. He struggled to move but in no time he found hisself crawling into bed to sleep off whatever he was currently feeling.