The Flame Pillar was cold.
Always was—until it tasted blood.
Aman stood at its base, wrists bound behind him, knees grinding into the stone. The runes etched around the circle pulsed in quiet blue, humming softly beneath the silence.
The crowd had gathered now—disciples in full ceremonial veils, lining the outer ring like shadows with no voice. Their presence didn't feel sacred.
It felt like a funeral with no mourning.
The elders moved with practiced rhythm, spreading spirit oil on the floor in the shape of the Lotus. They didn't look at Aman. Not even once. He wasn't a person anymore.
Just a name to be burned.
Only Ren stood close—within ten steps. His robes were unstained, his posture still. The flickering brazier beside him cast gold light on his cheek.
Aman stared at him.
"You said something once," Aman said. His voice was hoarse, his tongue dry. "That if they ever turned on me... you'd be the one to light the pyre."
Ren didn't respond.
"You told me it'd be better that way. Cleaner."
Still nothing.
Aman smiled.
Not a soft smile. Not a broken one.
A sharp smile, like something splitting under pressure.
"So do it," Aman whispered. "Burn me."
Elder Shi stepped forward holding the ceremonial brand—its curved iron tip engraved with the first oath of the sect. It glowed faintly.
He raised it toward the heavens.
"By sacred law and ancestor flame," Shi began, "we cleanse this traitor in the fires of—"
"Do it!" Aman barked.
The entire chamber stilled.
His voice cut through the ritual like a knife through silk.
Elder Shi faltered for half a breath. His eyes flicked to Ren.
Ren nodded.
Shi turned.
He drove the brand down.
It struck the pillar.
And the fire roared.
The Oathfire wasn't red. Not like normal flame.
It burned a pale, blinding white—then blue—then something deeper. It wrapped Aman like silk, but it wasn't gentle.
It was alive.
It didn't just burn his skin. It slid into his lungs, his blood, his mind. It searched him. Probed him. Judged him.
Pain wasn't even the right word.
It was exposure. Like being unwrapped. Unwritten.
He saw flashes—memories torn out by fire. His father's hand. Ren's laughter. The first time he'd sworn an oath under the Iron Oak Tree.
The tree caught fire in his vision.
He could smell it.
And above all else, he felt watched.
Not by the crowd. Not by Ren.
By something inside the fire.
It was ancient. And waiting.
[Author Note]
The fire judges oaths... not actions.
Part 3 drops soon — and something ancient answers.
If you felt the burn, let me know below.
Your comments feed the flame.
— Ashborn Sage