"Dorian, come here and help with your brother. I need some rest," Eyanna called, her voice rough with exhaustion.

  Dorian set down the bundle of kindling he had been sorting and moved to her side. His mother sat by the hearth, the dim firelight casting shadows beneath her eyes. She held his brother—tiny, warm, and blissfully unaware of the world’s sharp edges.

  The baby’s name was Aric, a name that meant strength. Eyanna had chosen it, her voice filled with a hope that felt almost fragile. Dorian had agreed, the name a promise they couldn’t quite speak out loud. Aric would grow up strong—stronger than Dorian had been, stronger than Aaron had lived to be.

  As he took his brother into his arms, Dorian felt the weight of both worlds pressing down on him—the life he had lived before, and the fragile life he held now. His plan itched at the back of his mind, the ruins calling to him, but here, in this moment, he was simply a brother, a son, a keeper of small warmths.

  He had thought much about how he had been sentient from birth, how his mind had never been as blank as a true infant’s. It had always unsettled him. Did Aric dream of past lives as he did, or was his mind a blank slate, ready to be filled with stories and sunlight instead of regret and shadows?

  A chill swept through the room as Eyanna settled into sleep, her breathing deep and steady. Dorian sat still, the warmth of his brother against his chest, the fire a low murmur in the room. He wondered if Aric would remember what happened to their father, or if that burden of memory would fall to him and his mother.

  He knew the world outside their small home was not as quiet. Winter’s claws scraped at the door, and the forest beyond held its own dangers—wolves, both those with fangs and those with hungry eyes and knives.

  But none of that mattered now. He had a plan.

  Carefully, he rose. He tucked Aric into Eyanna’s arms, pulling the blanket up to their chins. His mother stirred but did not wake, her fingers instinctively curling around the baby. For a moment, Dorian allowed himself to feel the warmth of their small family, the gentle rise and fall of their breathing a soft rhythm in the dark.

  Before slipping into the night, Dorian moved to the corner of the room, where a small chest lay half-buried beneath a pile of old blankets. His father’s chest. He knelt, his fingers brushing away the dust as he opened it quietly. Inside lay a simple knife, its leather-wrapped handle worn smooth by Aaron’s hands. The blade was short but sharp, a hunting knife, nothing more—but it had been enough to keep them safe once.

  He took it, the weight of it a cold comfort in his hand. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He slipped it into his belt, the metal cold against his skin. The knife had been a tool in his father’s grip, but in his, it would be a weapon.

  Then, he slipped into the night.

  The air was sharp, each breath a needle in his lungs. His boots crunched in the thin crust of snow as he moved toward the woods, his satchel light against his side. His thoughts circled back to the ruins, to the promises of old power and the whisper of secrets buried beneath stone and root.

  He had no map, only the stories of old men and the glow of the moon. But he had purpose, and sometimes, that was enough.

  Dorian ventured in the direction the stories warned against, the forbidden paths whispered about by the village elders when they drank too much. They thought their tales of dark woods and ancient shadows would frighten children, keep them close to the firelight and away from the ruins.

  But he wasn’t a child. He was a king, trapped in the body of a boy, and his fear had burned away long ago.

  The path twisted and turned, half-buried under the snow, with gnarled roots snaking across it like veins beneath pale skin. Each step was a crunch against the silence, his breath hanging in the frigid air like a specter. The trees loomed, their branches bare and skeletal, reaching into the sky as if they might scratch the stars.

  There was no warmth, no comfort. Only the endless dark and the cold fingers of wind that slipped under his clothes.

  Was it always this eerie? he wondered. The world around him seemed to breathe, the shadows shifting in the corners of his vision. His father’s knife rested against his hip, a cold weight that steadied him. His magic, too, lingered beneath his skin, a low hum like the embers of a dying fire, waiting for a spark.

  He walked, because there was nothing else to do. Because turning back meant turning away from any chance at strength. If he failed here, he failed his mother, his brother, and himself.

  Hours passed. The forest swallowed time, and the moon hung motionless, as if it were a watcher instead of a guide. His footsteps became the only heartbeat in the world, and he began to wonder if he would walk until the snow took him.

  But then, he saw it.

  At first, it was just a dark shape, a jagged silhouette against the pale backdrop of snow and sky. As he drew closer, it unfurled from the shadows, revealing itself piece by piece—a crumbling archway, the remains of pillars, and stone blocks half-sunken into the earth.

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  The ruins.

  The place where secrets slept, where power lingered in the bones of the earth.

  Dorian stood before the crumbling stone archway, its edges worn smooth by time and weather. Beyond it lay the remnants of something ancient—whether a castle, a temple, or a fortress, it was too decayed to tell. Nature had reclaimed much of it, with roots curling through the cracks, and snow settled in patches where the roof had fallen away.

  He took a breath, the air here colder, with a strange tang, like ash and iron. His father’s knife rested against his side, and his magic hummed beneath his skin, a whisper of warmth in the chill.

  Strange symbols were carved into the stone walls, twisted runes and geometric shapes that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking directly at them. Entering the ruins felt like stepping into a maze, with paths splitting off into darkness, each turn a new shadowed corridor.

  Yet, there was a pull, a whisper threading through his thoughts. He couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning pressed against his mind, a soft insistence that he follow.

  His steps echoed as he moved deeper, the light of his small fire spell casting flickering shadows on the crumbling walls. Memories of his past life crawled at the edge of his thoughts. He had always despised altars, places where sacrifices were made in the name of power. Many times, he had outlawed such practices, his fear of magic rooted in memories of blood and stone.

  And then he saw it—the altar. It sat in the center of a circular chamber, the stone blackened and cracked, surrounded by columns that leaned like drunken soldiers. The altar itself was simple, a block of stone with a shallow basin atop it, filled with something dark that reflected no light. The air around it shimmered with a strange heat, a pulsing warmth that seemed to draw breath in tandem with his own. Faint stains marred the stone, the ghost of old blood that time had not entirely erased.

  A voice slipped through the gloom, more distinct this time, like the one from his dreams—the same voice that had pulled him from death.

  "Prove yourself."

  The fire sprang to life, a circle of flames erupting around him. They did not burn, but their heat pressed against him, a wall of light and heat, holding him in place. His breath came fast, the cold air scraping his lungs. He reached for his knife, but the shadows twisted, tendrils of darkness reaching for him, coiling around his wrists and ankles.

  For a moment, panic gripped him. His father's knife flashed, the blade slicing through the shadow, but the darkness reformed, endless and patient.

  What do I do?

  Then he remembered. His mother’s tired smile, his brother’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt, the weight of Aaron’s last words. He had come here because strength was the only path forward. If he failed now, he failed them all.

  With a shaking breath, he did the only thing he could. He whispered the only spell he knew, the one his father had taught him, the simplest invocation, but one that had never failed him.

  "Kindle and rise."

  The flames answered.

  They erupted upwards, the circle breaking, flames licking the stone ceiling, twisting into shapes that danced just at the edge of recognition. The fire was not the soft orange glow he was used to—it burned white-hot, a pillar of light, fierce and unyielding.

  But as the light surged, so did the shadows. They did not simply retreat—they fought back, the darkness thickening at the edges of the flames, twisting into forms that pulled at the corners of his vision.

  From the mist, figures emerged.

  His father, Aaron, stood with hollow eyes, his chest stained red, the mark of the bandits' blades still visible. Beside him, his mother, Eyanna, her face drawn and pale, holding Aric who screamed soundlessly, his small hands reaching for help.

  "You failed us," the shadow of Aaron whispered, his voice like frost on glass. "Even now, you run away."

  Dorian’s breath caught. His hands trembled, the flames flickering in response to his fear.

  "No," he muttered, but his voice was thin, almost lost in the roar of the flames.

  The figures stepped closer, their feet leaving no mark on the stone floor. The air thickened, and Dorian felt a weight pressing down, like the world itself was trying to crush him. His father’s knife hung useless at his side, the shadows coiling around it, binding his hand.

  The altar's basin began to boil, the dark substance evaporating into a mist that wrapped around him. Each breath he took drew the cold into his lungs, his magic shrinking under the weight of his guilt.

  "You let me die," Aaron’s shade said, his face warping, the eyes turning black, voids that pulled at his soul.

  Dorian closed his eyes, the world falling away, only the flames remaining—small, fragile, but still burning.

  And then, the voice returned, not from the shadows, but from the fire itself, a whisper threading through his mind, each word a cold shiver against his skin.

  "Ignite and Burn."

  The words weren’t just sounds—they carried intent, a push of will that pressed into him, twisting around his own magic. It was the same as when he had been a baby, hearing his father’s spell, unable to speak but feeling the purpose behind it.

  This time, the intent was stronger, sharper. It wasn’t just about creating fire, but about giving it purpose, about turning warmth into a weapon, a tool of survival.

  Dorian’s eyes snapped open, his fear hardening into resolve.

  "Ignite and Burn!"

  The flames responded.

  They surged upward, not in a wild blaze, but in a focused column, a spear of fire that pierced the darkness. The heat was intense, but it did not harm him. Instead, it swirled around him, a circle of flame that felt like a shield, a promise of safety in the heart of danger.

  The shadows shattered, the figures of his family burning away, their darkness turning to ash. The mist thickened, then condensed, and as it withdrew, it left something behind on the altar.

  A small stone, smooth and dark, etched with the same runes that had lined the ruins' walls. It seemed to draw his hand forward, a magnetic pull he could not resist. When he reached out, the stone felt warm, a pulse of magic threading through his fingertips, sinking into his skin.

  It wasn’t just magic—it was understanding.

  The stone was a focus, an anchor for his magic, but more than that, it was a guide. As his fingers closed around it, images flashed through his mind—other words, other commands, each a key to a door he had not yet found.

  "Ember and Wither."

  "Flare and Blind."

  "Shield and Hold."

  A dozen whispers, a hundred possibilities, each one a seed of power, waiting to be nurtured.

  When the flames died, the ruins were silent, the shadows gone, leaving only the cold stone and the faint glow of the rune stone in his palm.

  Dorian drew in a shuddering breath, his heartbeat echoing in the emptiness.

  He had not just survived the trial—he had claimed something from it. And in the stillness, he felt the shift within him, the weight of the stone, and the promise of fire yet to come.