Ember’s secret

CHAPTER EIGHT – “Ember’s Secret”

Rowan woke to the faint sound of crackling. At first, she thought it was the fireplace. Then she realized the sound was coming from her desk—where Ember, her flame spirit, hovered, glowing brighter than usual.

The tiny fireball floated closer, his light pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Ember?” she whispered, pushing herself upright. “What’s wrong?”

The spirit didn’t answer in words. Instead, a thin, wavering voice curled into her mind—like whispers carried on smoke.

Follow.

She glanced at the door, then back at the little flame. “Follow where?”

Another warm pulse. No answer.

Rowan slipped out of bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. She snatched her cloak from the chair and draped it around her shoulders. “This better not be one of your weird games,” she muttered, though part of her already knew it wasn’t.

Ember zipped to the door, hovering until she opened it.

⸻

The halls were silent. Torches burned low, their shadows dancing across the walls. The moonlight from the high windows silvered the marble, making the Academy feel older—like the stones remembered things no one dared speak aloud.

Ember darted ahead, leaving a faint trail of warmth in the otherwise cool night air. Rowan followed, keeping her steps light.

They passed the training yard, where the sparring dummies stood like frozen sentries. Then Ember turned sharply toward a narrow archway she’d never noticed before.

“This isn’t the way to the dorms,” she whispered.

The flame’s glow flickered once, almost impatient.

Rowan ducked under the archway, her hand trailing along the wall as they descended a spiraling set of steps. The air grew warmer. The stones here were darker, streaked with black soot as if they’d survived a fire centuries ago.

When they reached the bottom, Ember floated ahead into a wide circular chamber.

⸻

In the center was a ring of molten stone, its cracks glowing faintly like cooled lava coming back to life. The heat rolled over her in waves, but it didn’t burn her skin—it was a heat that seemed to settle deeper, warming her blood.

Ember drifted into the center of the ring, flaring bright like a miniature sun.

A voice filled her head—clearer now, but layered, like many voices speaking through one flame.

You have come.

Her throat went dry. “Come where?”

To memory.

The molten ring shimmered, and the air shifted—thickened—until she felt like she was breathing fire itself. Then the visions came.

⸻

She saw a woman standing on a cliff, her dark hair whipping in the wind. Fire blazed in her eyes. She wore armor etched with dragon scales, the mark of the Dragonheart glowing faintly on her skin.

Beside her stood a dragon prince, his scales glinting gold under the sun. His gaze held the kind of fierce trust that could burn the world.

Then the scene changed. War. Smoke. Dragons clashed in the sky, their roars shaking the ground. The gold-scaled prince fought with relentless fire—until an enemy spear struck him deep.

The Dragonheart screamed his name, her voice raw with grief.

The image shattered into smoke.

Rowan’s pulse raced. “Who… who were they?”

Ember’s light dimmed, his voice heavy.

Before you. Before this age. She bore the fire as you do. She loved as you will.

A chill prickled down her spine. “And what happened to them?”

One word.

Betrayal.

The molten ring flared again, and this time she saw the woman kneeling beside the prince’s body, her hands stained red with blood and ash. Behind her stood a shadowed figure, its features hidden, but its presence sharp and cold.

You were warned, the figure said, its voice like a blade.

The woman’s shoulders shook. The fire in her eyes dimmed.

Then the vision dissolved, leaving only heat and the sound of her own breath.

⸻

Rowan stumbled back, gripping her cloak. “Why are you showing me this?”

Ember drifted closer, his warmth steady but somehow sorrowful.

So you will not repeat it.

Her voice shook. “Repeat what?”

The flame pulsed once… then dimmed until only a faint ember remained. The molten ring cooled, its glow fading to black stone.

Rowan stood in silence, her heartbeat loud in the empty chamber.

⸻

She didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The images kept flashing in her mind—the scream, the spear, the shadow’s voice.

By morning, she knew exactly who she needed to confront.

⸻

She found Kai in the training yard, sparring with a wooden blade. His strikes were sharp, every swing filled with restless energy. The air around him shimmered faintly with heat, like his fire was closer to the surface than usual.

“Kai,” she called.

He glanced over, sweat dripping from his temple. “You’re up early.”

“I need to ask you something.” She walked closer, her voice firm.

He lowered his blade, studying her warily. “What is it?”

“What happened to the last Dragonheart?”

His expression didn’t change, but his grip on the sword tightened just enough for her to notice.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asked, his tone low.

“I didn’t. Ember showed me.”

That made him freeze.

“In a flame circle,” she pressed. “Beneath the Academy. I saw… a war. A prince with gold scales. And—” her throat caught—“a betrayal.”

His jaw tightened. He turned his back on her, sheathing the blade.

“You shouldn’t go looking for ghosts, Rowan,” he said.

“They weren’t ghosts,” she insisted. “They were real. You knew them, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“What happened to them?” she asked again.

He kept his eyes forward. “It’s not a story you need to hear.”

“That’s not your choice to make.”

For a moment, he stood perfectly still. Then he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes hard, the heat in them different from his fire—colder, sharper.

“Some truths do more harm than lies,” he said. “Let it go.”

Her hands curled into fists. “You think ignoring it will protect me?”

“I think digging into it will burn you alive,” he replied, his voice quiet but heavy.

She took a step toward him. “And if it’s already too late for that?”

His gaze flickered—just for a second—but he turned away before she could read it.

Without another word, he walked off the training field. His steps were steady, deliberate, like he was holding something in check.

⸻

Rowan stood there, her cloak heavy on her shoulders, her heart thudding in her chest.

She didn’t know if it was anger, fear, or something far more dangerous that twisted in her gut.

She only knew one thing for certain.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she whispered.

The morning wind carried her words away, but the heat in her chest refused to fade.