The path to the fifth tower was not one Zia had walked before—not in dreams, not in training, not in the pages of the academy's forbidden tomes. The fifth tower stood at the farthest edge of the campus, built on an outcrop that overlooked the sea of molten earth. The flames below weren't natural; they pulsed with unnatural rhythm, alive with the same dark energy that lived in her veins.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched the scroll tighter. The words written inside were now burned into her memory, written in a script that shimmered and shifted whenever she tried to reread it. No one had told her what lay beyond the sealed gate—only that it was ancient, older even than the Academy itself.
She approached the tower alone, the halls eerily quiet. Statues of faceless flamebearers lined the path, their eyes replaced with carved runes. As she stepped closer, the brazier at the foot of the gate roared to life.
The sealed gate was a massive obsidian door engraved with a spiral of elemental runes. As she neared, the runes on her arms responded—flaring softly, like coals being stirred.
The door did not open with force. It inhaled.
A gust of hot air blew outward, and the obsidian split in two, revealing a stairwell of black stone descending into crimson light.
She stepped inside.
The door sealed behind her.
The heat here was different—heavier, older. As though time itself had been scorched into the walls. The stairwell wound downward, tighter and tighter, until it opened into a circular chamber deep underground.
In the center stood a brazier—unlit.
Beside it, an old man in pale robes turned to face her. His eyes were blind, but they glowed like fading embers.
"You are late," he said.
"I came as soon as I could."
"Soon is still later than the flame prefers. But not too late."
"Who are you?"
"I am Keeper of the Ember Gate. I have waited two lifetimes for one like you."
Zia felt her mouth go dry. "What is this place?"
"The true heart of the Academy. The place where the Flame was first bound—and where it may one day be freed."
He gestured toward the brazier.
"Light it."
"With what?"
"Your will. Your truth. The fire knows its own."
Zia approached. Her heart pounded. She reached into herself—not physically, but deeper. Past pain, past anger, to something purer. A spark of purpose. Of hope.
She extended her hand.
The brazier flared to life in an instant, the flames leaping upward like they'd been starved for centuries. They wrapped around her arm, did not burn, but branded her with a new rune—on her palm this time.
The Keeper bowed. "You have awakened the Gate."
The walls began to glow, revealing murals—images of past flamebearers, of monstrous creatures born from corrupted fire, of battles waged not with swords but with soulfire.
"You will learn what none before you were allowed to know," the Keeper said. "And with it, a price will come."
Zia stared into the brazier, the flames reflecting in her wide eyes.
"What price?"
He looked at her solemnly. "Everything not bound to flame... will try to tear you away from it."
The fire within the brazier shifted, taking shape. Shadows formed into echoes of figures—some weeping, others screaming, a few laughing. One looked like her mother. Another wore Zia's own face, twisted with power and rage.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Echoes of the flame's past bearers. Some succeeded. Some fell. All are remembered."
Zia's throat tightened. "Is that... truly my mother?"
The Keeper's face softened. "No. But the flame remembers your grief. It uses memory as mirror. You must learn to see truth beyond reflection."
Zia stepped closer to the dancing fire figures. One broke away from the flames—a small girl, barefoot, with soot-smudged cheeks and fire in her eyes.
The child stared at her.
Then whispered, "You're almost ready."
Zia gasped.
She turned to the Keeper. "What does this mean?"
"It means the flame is no longer testing you. It is guiding you."
A slow realization settled over Zia. The flame had always seemed wild, unpredictable. But here, now—it felt like something ancient trying to remember itself through her. A bond forming, not just of power, but of purpose.
The Keeper raised his hand, and the flames in the brazier shifted into a portal of flickering red light.
"Beyond this gate lies the true crucible. The trials of flame, forged in truth, not illusion. If you pass them, the Fifth Path will reveal its final name to you."
Zia's chest rose with a deep breath. She nodded.
"I'm ready."
Before stepping into the flame, she glanced one last time at the murals. One panel depicted a young flamebearer standing between two armies—one made of shadows, the other of flame. The figure stood alone, arms raised, runes blazing.
Below it, in ancient script, was written: To balance the flame is to carry the curse.
She wondered if the Fifth Path wasn't a path at all—but a burden.
Then, without further thought, she stepped forward. The fire consumed her form, not with pain, but with overwhelming light. Her thoughts fractured into memory, dream, and prophecy.
She saw visions of things yet to pass: A city in ruin. Her hands soaked in ash. A child born with fire in both eyes. A throne made of bone and ember.
The flame whispered: You must choose what burns.
She fell to her knees, trembling, heart thundering in her chest. The portal solidified around her, and her runes flared so brightly they illuminated the cavern in pure white heat.
When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else.
A cavernous room, ringed with seven flaming orbs. Figures in black and crimson robes stood around her. She had reached the sanctum.
And the true trials had only just begun.
But even before the elders could speak, the flames shifted again—revealing not visions, but warnings.
One orb flickered violently, showing a flame corrupted—green and decaying.
The Keeper stepped forward behind her, solemn. "That is the final enemy. Not a person... but what happens when flame is twisted. Cursed by fear."
Zia stared. "Fear of what?"
"Of truth. Of loss. Of freedom."
The Keeper placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Your trials will test more than power. They will test the story you believe about yourself."
And Zia understood, as the orbs turned, one by one, to face her. They weren't just flames. They were watchers.
She was not only being prepared.
She was being judged.