Pirin focussed the Chain on his own lifespan. He flooded his Essence with a simple desire of longing, curiosity, and the constant nagging, that voice within him that didn’t understand who or why he existed.

He saw visions of his own birth, and of the months afterward. His mother was young and alone when she gave birth, and she wanted nothing to do with Pirin after his birth. She gave him away to a healer.

At least, that was all he could gather from the whipping, whirling memories. The Chain only knew what he could, and though it probably recalled his childhood better than most people could recall their own, it was nowhere near complete.

In the months after his birth, a caretaker watched over him. A man. A scarling…Kalénier?

The man brought him to a hidden village on a distant shore of Kerstel, where no one would understand what Pirin was, what his black hair meant, or even know about his abilities—not until he was ready.

And then years passed. The village healer accepted Pirin and raised him like a son—Mr. Regos.

And Pirin learned the ways of healing, but not arcane healing. Just…regular herbs and stitches and bandages, setting broken bones or dislocated shoulders. But he knew that.

Where was it? Where was the final piece?

His curiosity flared into irritation and fear. If he couldn’t find the memory…did that mean that he’d never know?

And Kal was dead. If he knew, the secret died with him?

But the irritation and fear mixed with the curiosity, and it blended into his Essence, which fuelled the Chain. It showed him glimpses of him trying his magic and failing, of him attending Familiar-earning ceremonies and failing to bond. Of him learning to use a sword and not grasping any of the basics.

Then, finally, of him standing on a balcony, side-by-side with Kalénier. He didn’t know where they were; the memory wasn’t clear enough. Pirin had been focussed only on Kalénier. His fists clenched, his lips trembling. A furnace blazed in his chest.

“Kal, be honest. Am I special?” Pirin had asked. Something had happened. The hints, the inconsistencies, the confusing, had all welled up, and the game was up. He needed to know the answer.

The scarling looked off into the distance, then back at Pirin for a few seconds, then down at the ground. Perhaps he was trying to come up with a placation, but nothing came out.

“No. You are not. You have no royal blood in you, and you aren’t a king. Not by blood, not by inheriting a bloodline.”

“Then…how? I’ve attended fifteen Reyad ceremonies now, and all to the same result. An Embercore. But you say the old line lost their spiritual roots entirely, so…I shouldn’t even be an Embercore, right?”

“No.”

“Then what am I?”

“My first job for the chancellor was to find a newborn elven child, hidden somewhere far away from the Elven continent, and deliver a complex alchemical tincture to the child. My task was to create a king, and I did. This was eighteen years ago.”

“The bloodline?”

“Weak, but present. It will take work to cultivate the wisps we inserted into your early Essence field. The Chancellor nearly bankrupted Sirdia to make it, to extract what traces of Essence remained in Mransil III’s bones. He made thirty tinctures and hired thirty mercenaries, and found thirty newborn elves to deliver it to. By the time they were old enough to potentially form a Reyad, twenty-nine of them had died. You are the one who lived.

“Your hair blackened as a result of the process, but more than that, you developed the ability to draw in Essence, if only a weak ability. At first, in your early years, it looked like you might develop a spiritual system of a proper wizard—a result of the tincture—but it twisted into that of a regular Embercore.”

“Who were my parents?”

“Your father? A wealthy Aerdian student travelling to the academies of the west, who stopped for a few days in Kerstel and met an elven woman in a tavern. You’re a product of a one night stand. By blood, they’re nobody.”

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Pirin had scowled, words barely seeping out of his mouth. “People will find out. This won’t stay a secret forever. You can’t keep telling them I’m a lost descendant of Mransil.”

“We’ll tell them you were chosen by the Eane, that it seeks to continue the line, and you will save the elves. They’ll accept it.”

Pirin deactivated the Memory Chain, then leaned back on his hands and stared up at the roof of Mr. Regos’ hovel. It made slightly more sense now.

“I am…nothing.”

Not chosen by the Eane, not given this path by bloodright. They turned him into an Embercore, they’d done this to him.

And they’d killed twenty-nine other children in their experiments, in hopes of making another king.

Pirin stared down at his hands. He felt like he needed to wash them off in the ocean, anything to get the foul feeling off them.

But it all made sense now.

He slammed his eyes shut again. “How? How am I going to do it? I’m going to be honest. I’m going to tell them the truth, and I’m going to prove that I can be a good king, not by blood, but by merit. I know struggle, now, and I’ve risen above it.”

A burst of resonance poured down his spine and his central channel, illuminating the inner gates and shaking off the debris of the three middle gates, before opening them wide for Essence to pour through.

One more advancement. He could do it. Right now.

Clarity burned in his mind, and everything was slotting together. He hated it, he hated who he was. He hated that he was an Embercore, he hated how weak he felt, but he hated more that he was the product of desperation, horrid experimentation, and murder.

But he could make it right. He didn’t choose to do those things. He could only affect the here and the now.

“Why…?”

“Why do you want it, Pirin?” Nomad asked, prompting. “Why must you heal the kingdom, set us free, improve the nation along with yourself?”

“I’ve been weak all my life,” Pirin said, thinking aloud. “I’ve been nothing. An apprentice healer on a dead-end island, an Embercore looked down on by everyone, and now, it turns out my claim was based on a complete lie. I…want to prove that I’m not nothing. That I can rise from the dust, two hands tied behind my back, and still matter. So why? Because I’m tired of being weak.”

Again, his spine resonated, and the upper two gates flooded open, shaking off their debris.

He willed Essence up to the very top, begging it to touch his spine and bring him new power, to advance him.

But nothing happened.

“I hit the three revelations,” Pirin said. “I’m not advancing. At least…I don’t feel like I have.”

“You haven’t,” said Nomad. “You will know when you’ve advanced. No, you’ve only cleared the gates, paving the way. Remember, you need a final revelation, the Eane revelation, to take in a slice of the universal way and truly advance to Wildflame. To bathe your body in Essentia, and reforge yourself to new heights.”

“Can I…try?”

Nomad shrugged. “It won’t be as easy. You must…combine your previous revelations into a much more difficult revelation: you must know who you are, and why you’re on the Path that you are.”

“Do I only have three chances?”

“Only three,” Nomad confirmed.

“Then I’ll…wait. I’ll think about it.” Pirin scratched the back of his head. “Do we need to stay here? Or…can I achieve it anywhere?”

“The Eane revelation is about who you are at this moment. Not about who you were, or used to be. We’ve done all we can in Kerstel, and—”

“Pirin!” The door creaked open, and Tanillar’s head poked inside. “The guards are coming. Three of them.”

“I’ll leave and make a show of it,” Pirin said. “Tanillar, if I don’t see you again, thank you for your help.”

“O—of course.”

“Now, sorry, but I don’t want them to implicate you in anything.” Pirin tucked his head, then pushed Tanillar aside. He didn’t push hard enough to kill or injure, but it was a stronger thrust than a regular elf could’ve mustered. Tanillar yelped, then stumbled backward off the walkway and landed in a shallow pool of water.

“There they are!” a guard yelled. It was a third guard, a different man with long brown hair and a braid. “Nothing but trouble, they are! You there!” he shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at Pirin. “Halt! Submit yourselves and show your travel slip! You don’t have permission to cross—”

Pirin slid his mask on, then launched a Winged Fist along the walkway at the man. It knocked him off his feet and thrust him back onto the wooden boards.

“Time to go!” Pirin shouted to Gray and Nomad, then ran off along the boardwalk. The two followed close behind him.

He jumped over the first guard, the antagonistic soldier, then came face-to-face with the other two—the guards they’d spoken to on the way in. Both of them crossed their spears in front of Pirin.

Pirin stopped and spread his arms. “Do you really want to do this? You won’t win.”

The guards glanced at each other, then at the third. Finally, they split apart and retreated to the edge of the walkway, allowing Pirin and the others through.

They sprinted out of the cove, then along the shore and back up the pathway, to the waiting Featherflight. Gray hopped back to the cargo hold, and Pirin and Nomad ran to the gondola.

“Time to go!” Pirin called. “Before they change their minds and come after us!”