Night fell like a dark veil over the dunes of Kael’Zyth. Arien followed the trail marked by Khron, guided only by the muted pulse of the crystal fragment and a crimson moon that hung in the sky like a suspended ruby. The silence was absolute — even the wind had stilled, as if respecting the sacred ritual about to unfold at the hidden well.
After hours of marching, he reached a cluster of crimson rocks, their faces reflecting the moonlight in shades of dried blood. There, buried beneath the sand, emerged the outline of a stone wheel carved with ancient symbols: the portal to the well. Arien knelt, removed his cloak, and began clearing the sand with his hands, revealing spiral steps leading downward. With each step, the fragment pulsed more intensely, warming his palm.
At the bottom, the water was red, translucent, as if filled with suspended ashes. Arien extended the metal cup borrowed from Khron and drank without hesitation. The liquid burned his throat — but it did not hurt. Instead, it brought him a vision: flashes of his past flooded his mind. He saw his adoptive parents — benevolent figures, but without a trace of divinity — uttering a prayer in an unknown tongue as they caressed his forehead, just before handing him over to the caretaker of the temple. And, for an instant, he felt an invisible hand rest on his shoulder, as if someone were watching over his fate.
When he looked up, he found himself face-to-face with the Static Flame: a column of diffuse light hovering over the crimson surface, without heat, without fire, but exuding a deadly aura. Before he could react, the ground trembled, shattering the quiet, and from the sand emerged the Thaurr’kra, guardian of the silent embers: an incandescent figure, yet without glow, shaped like a warrior of cold fire. Its eyes, black sparks, pierced through Arien.
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The combat was brief and lethal. Arien lunged with his spear, feeling its blade burn on contact with the guardian’s spongy body, but without producing visible flame. With every thrust, the crystal in his pocket vibrated — as if it wished to leap out and join the beast. Arien remembered Khron’s words:
“Only those who understand the emptiness of fire can control it.”
In a swift motion, he focused his weight on Thaurr’kra’s torso, using his closed fist to smash the crystal against the guardian’s obsidian armor. A muted boom reverberated through the well’s walls, and the fiery body dissolved into a powder of cold ashes. The crystal fragment, split from the creature, ceased its violent pulsing and fell motionless to the ground — but did not break.
Before Arien could retrieve it, he heard light footsteps behind him. A hooded figure emerged from the shadows: a young woman with amber eyes, curly hair wrapped in a sand-colored turban, wielding a curved blade etched with flame runes. Her expression was cautious, but not hostile.
“You killed the guardian,” she said, her voice steady. “Not many dare so much. I am Khaelin Ashar, of the Wandering Tribes. I came to observe who sought the Static Flame — and I hope it’s not only for revenge.”
Arien wiped the sweat from his brow, still feeling the cold echo of battle. “My name is Arien Varoth. I came to understand the fire that never burns… and to avenge my people. If necessary, I’ll fight gods and demons alike.”
Khaelin smiled, revealing a dimple in her chin. “Such courage borders on madness — but it may be what we need. The desert holds more mysteries than your spear can reach alone. If you want company, will you accept my steps until dawn? Together, we may decipher the next riddle: why does this fire not burn, and what does it reveal about your origins?”
Arien hesitated only for an instant before extending his hand. As he touched her, he felt an unexpected warmth — not the silent fire of the desert, but the warmth of a new alliance forming.
As the two climbed the steps toward the crimson moon, the remaining crystal fragment, now silent, gave off a faint red glow — as if pulsing in unison with Arien’s new journey.