Morning came late in Greyfall.
The sun barely made it past the thick grey clouds, casting more of a dim glow than any real light. Aric didn't sleep much. The dreams were worse here—filled with fire, shadows, and voices that sounded too close.
Maelis was already awake, sitting at the small table near the window, sharpening his blade with slow, steady strokes.
"You said you'd take me to someone," Aric said, pulling on his boots.
Maelis nodded. "His name's Brennar. Used to be the Keeper of the Ember Vault."
"Used to be?"
"Let's just say he had to disappear when the Veil started hunting anyone with fire in their blood."
They left the inn quietly and moved through the side streets, careful not to draw attention. Even here, in a broken city, word of an Emberblade would spread like sparks in dry grass.
Eventually, they reached an old stone hall at the edge of the city—partially buried, with iron doors and faded runes above the entrance.
"He lives down there?" Aric asked, eyeing the doors.
"Not lives. Hides," Maelis corrected. "Come on."
The doors groaned open. Inside was cold stone, a winding staircase, and the smell of damp earth and forgotten things.
They descended.
Aric counted each step without meaning to. Thirty-two. Forty. Sixty-five.
At the bottom was a narrow passage lit by lanterns that gave off a strange, steady blue light.
Then a voice echoed from ahead. Old, but sharp.
"Didn't expect to see your face again, Maelis."
A man stepped out of the shadows. Tall, wiry, with white streaks in his dark hair. His eyes were pale—almost silver—and he looked at Aric like someone who already knew too much.
"So this is him?" Brennar asked.
"He is."
Brennar walked around Aric once, slow. "You don't look like much."
"Neither do you," Aric said flatly.
Brennar cracked a grin. "Fair."
He motioned for them to follow and led them deeper underground into a chamber filled with relics—shards of armor, broken hilts, old scrolls. The air was thick with dust and memory.
"This was the Ember Vault," Brennar said. "Every Emberblade trained here once. And every one of them left something behind. Until the day the fire turned against them."
Aric's hand went to the sword on his back. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Brennar said, turning to face him fully, "that the fire isn't a gift. It's a test. And not everyone passes."
He stepped closer.
"You've felt it, haven't you? That edge in your chest. That flicker behind your thoughts. Like something else is watching."
Aric's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
"I'll teach you," Brennar said. "Not how to control the sword. But how to survive yourself."
Aric met his eyes. "And what's the cost?"
Brennar's smile faded. "The truth."