Ember Lance.
A name that carried the taste of ash and the chill of finality. Fear and dread followed it like a plague, whispered in the gutters of the underground and muttered with trembling reverence in the highest halls of power.
She was not remembered as a person, but as a phenomenon. A being who erased. Whole bloodlines, syndicates, and corrupted legacies vanished where her crimson shadow fell. She appeared only in red—red hair, red flame, red silence—and with it came the certainty that someone, or something, was about to be removed from existence.
Her origin was a void. No records, no whispers of childhood, no surviving tales of her rise. Those who might have known the truth were no longer part of the world—swept clean, as though the universe itself conspired to keep her veiled.
One fact persisted, carved into the fear of every survivor:No one who saw her face lived long enough to tell the story.
She was not a rumor. She was not a legend.She was the Ember Lance.
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