The journey to Vaerith was nothing like Elara imagined.
The land surrounding the fallen city had been twisted by centuries of dormant magic — the trees glowed faintly at night, and the rivers whispered names not spoken in generations. The closer they got, the more time felt wrong — days stretched, nights flickered, and sometimes their shadows moved before they did.
"The Veil is thin here," Miraen explained as they crossed a broken stone bridge draped in vines. "Vaerith was once the Flameborn capital. When it fell, it took time with it."
Kael scanned the horizon. "And what else?"
"Grief," Miraen answered. "A grief so old it no longer remembers its name."
As the sun sank, they made camp on the edge of a cracked marble causeway. In the distance, Vaerith's broken spires clawed at the sky, veiled in ash and silence.
That night, Elara couldn't sleep. The shard pulsed against her chest like a second heartbeat.
She slipped away from the camp and sat alone on a ridge. The stars above shimmered like tears on glass.
Kael joined her minutes later, sitting without a word.
"You knew she'd be there," Elara said.
Kael nodded. "I knew someone would. Word of the Flame Seals is spreading — not all who seek them mean well."
Elara turned toward him, her voice quieter. "Do you trust her?"
"I don't know." He met her gaze. "But I trust you. Even when I'm afraid."
His hand brushed hers — rough and steady. Elara didn't pull away.
"I keep seeing my mother," she said. "Not just in dreams. It's like her memory is guiding me. Or warning me."
Kael looked toward Vaerith's ruins.
"Maybe it's both."
Before Elara could reply, a low hum filled the air — like a melody played beneath the earth.
Then Miraen appeared behind them, her face solemn.
"The city's heart has stirred. The Temple is waking. We go now — or we lose the chance."
They gathered their things in silence. Even Seris seemed tense, her knives already drawn.
As they passed through the city's cracked gates, the world shifted again.
Vaerith had not forgotten.
The ash swirled in patterns that mirrored memories — laughter in broken halls, firelight frozen in shattered windows. Statues wept. Buildings bled light.
And at the center, veiled in a dome of glass and fire, stood the Temple of Ash.
Its doors opened as they approached — without touch, without sound.
Inside, the air burned cold.
A voice echoed in the chamber — deep, ancient, filled with heartbreak.
"You carry her mark," it said. "Then you must face what she could not."
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in embers — tall, faceless, wrapped in molten chains.
"The Guardian," Miraen whispered. "He was once the last Flamebearer… until the fire consumed him."
The guardian raised its chained hand. Flame burst from the walls, encircling them.
And Elara stepped forward — alone.
"I am not her," she said. "But I carry what she left me. And I will not burn for her sins."
The fire swirled — testing, tasting.
And then it bowed.
The guardian dropped to one knee.
At the altar, a second shard rose from stone — blazing brighter than the first.
Elara reached out— and touched it.
Flame leapt into her veins, searing but not cruel. Visions flooded her again — of Isolde, of the Gate, of Kael.
But something else, too — a new voice.
"She is not the only heir."