High above the squalor, Kael paced the polished marbles of the Arcane Mechanics Hall. Peers applauded at his invention, but every cheer gnawed at him like acid. His prototype rested on the dais—a pale imitation of the Ember Gauntlet, crafted with forbidden schematics he'd stolen.
Late that night, he descended into the Hall's catacombs. Faded murals of vampire‑lords warned intruders—he pressed on, driven by guilt. Reaching the sewn Archive Vault, he cracked the wards and found the Council's darkest secret: the gauntlet was a relic of a vampire bloodline, capable of corrupting or consuming any wielder. Worse, they planned to mass‑produce suppressors to enslave Soul‑Flame users, Elira foremost among them.
Heart pounding, Kael realized his own betrayal: he had delivered her into this nightmare. His reflection in a brass control panel stared back—eyes haunted by flame‑shaped regrets. A soft hiss behind him:
"Looking for redemption?" It was Sireen, her silver gaze unblinking. "You're too late, Dravon."
He fled into the night, carrying both his prototype and a vice of remorse that threatened to crush him.