Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 11: The History of Shadowfire - remastered

The following days blurred into a frustrating cycle of Brock's patient instruction and my mounting failure. Summoning even a flicker of the promised shadowfire proved agonizingly elusive.

"Feel the magic within, Aleah," Brock urged, his voice calm. "It's not a parlor trick; you must draw that energy, shape it in your mind, then will it into existence." His earth magic, so tangible, so different, felt like a cruel comparison. He could conjure stone and soil with effortless grace. How could coaxing flame be so different?

My thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Amora's casual cruelty, the suffocating pressure stealing my breath. A phantom shiver traced my spine, the memory vivid and visceral. Even now, armed with this nascent power, I felt vulnerable, powerless against her practiced malice. Mastery wasn't just about control; it was about survival.

I dragged my focus back to my outstretched hand, channeling every fiber of my being, willing the phantom heat to coalesce. Hours dissolved into a fruitless endeavor, the bucket of water beside us a mocking testament to my lack of progress.

"This is pointless," I finally choked out, my arm falling limp.

"It's a beginning, Aleah," Brock countered gently. "Every skill demands patience. It may take time, days even, for that spark to ignite." His attempt at reassurance only amplified my frustration. Time was a luxury I couldn't afford, not with Amora's shadow looming.

"I need to control this before I hurt someone, Brock," I insisted, the weight of the unknown power heavy on my chest. "If it's as dangerous as you say, I've been living on borrowed time."

He studied me, a thoughtful silence stretching between us. "Are you afraid of your power, Aleah?"

The question caught me off guard. Fear? The singed edges of my dress, the smell of burnt hair... a tremor of unease ran through me.

"Yes," I admitted, the word a reluctant whisper. "I'm afraid of what I don't understand. I'm untrained, a novice stumbling in the dark. And what if I can't control it? What if I hurt others? Or myself?"

"You cannot let fear take root," Brock said, his gaze intense. "This power does not dictate you, Aleah. You command it. Fear will only breed instability. You must embrace it, accept this part of yourself. You are the Heir to Shadowfire."

The title hung in the air, a bewildering pronouncement. "The Heir to Shadowfire? What does that mean?"

Brock's hand flew to his forehead. "I... I shouldn't have said that."

"What does it mean, Brock?" I pressed, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach.

He hesitated, his gaze drawn to the black book on my desk, the one I'd pilfered from the library. "Have you read that yet?"

No. The book sat untouched, a silent testament to my apprehension. The ancient words felt heavy, the potential knowledge a terrifying burden. The stronger the power, the greater the risk. Yet, Brock was right. I was the master, the flame my servant.

I shook my head. Brock retrieved the book. "Come here," he said softly, gesturing to the bed.

He opened the cover. "The night your mother told me... about this," he gestured to me, a subtle nod towards my power, "I went straight to the library. This very book."

"And...?"

A wry smile touched his lips as he turned back to the table of contents. My own gaze followed, the familiar titles a stark reminder of my interrupted escape from the library, the unsettling encounter with Darian.

Chapter 1: The Origin of Shadowfire. Chapter 2: Who Can Wield Shadowfire. Chapter 3: How Dangerous is Shadowfire. Chapter 4: The Heir to Shadowfire. Chapter 5: The Curse of Shadowfire.

He flipped to Chapter Four and began to read aloud. "The wielder of these ancient powers is known as the Heir to Shadowfire. This is not merely a title. The throne of Shadowfire is not a physical seat of power. Just as a prince inherits his father's crown, the bearer of this magic inherits Shadowfire's ancient dominion, and all the power that comes with it.

"During the Great Atalarian War, when the gods gifted the royal line with the elements of Earth, Water, Air, and Fire, one god dissented. He believed humanity should pay a price for such power. He forged a magic so potent it held the potential to obliterate kingdoms. Every two centuries, one of royal blood would be chosen to wield it. This power would most likely be granted to one harboring deep-seated desires for revenge, inclined to inflict harm, to destroy rather than to aid."

The words struck like a physical blow. A monster. That's what this book implied. I, out of all my siblings, was deemed most likely to crave vengeance, to inflict pain. A chilling logic settled in. Amora's relentless torment, the simmering resentment I'd harbored for years... it all pointed to me.

Brock's gaze softened, observing my dawning horror. "This is why I'm training you, Aleah," he said firmly. "I refuse to believe you'd ever succumb to such darkness. You are the kindest soul I know. I believe in you, even if you doubt yourself."

His faith was a balm, yet the insidious tendrils of doubt remained. The times I'd fantasized about retaliation against Amora, the fleeting желаниe to watch this cold castle burn...

Brock continued reading, turning to Chapter Five: The Curse of Shadowfire.

"The first to wield this power was also the architect of his kingdom's ruin. When the gods bestowed their gifts, they also decreed that roughly every two centuries, one would bear the mantle of Shadowfire. The first was Prince Julian, overshadowed by his elder brother Edwin, consumed by jealousy for the attention Edwin received as the chosen heir. On coronation day, the king's decision confirmed Julian's insignificance. Enraged, Julian revealed his terrifying power, sowing fear before departing Atalar with a band of followers. Edwin dismissed his brother as lost. Two years later, Julian returned with a formidable army, overwhelming Atalar's unprepared defenses and seizing the throne he believed was his birthright.

"The curse of Shadowfire states: 'The Heir to Shadowfire will either be the salvation or the ruination of their kingdom.'"

Brock paused, a flicker of something akin to fear in his eyes. A pang of sadness resonated within me. Did he truly see me as a potential destroyer?

"Aleah," he said, his voice low and urgent, "I am teaching you to control this. But you must swear to me, never to use this power for malice. Do you understand?"

Did he truly believe I was capable of such darkness?

"Brock, I would never hurt anyone."

"Promise me, Aleah," he insisted, his gaze unwavering, "promise me you will only use this for the good of our people."

"I promise, Brock."

He nodded, a measure of relief in his expression, and closed the book. The weight of the prophecy settled heavily in the silence as we resumed our futile training.