The foundry reeked of rust and forgotten fire.
Ember crouched low behind a rusted smelting drum, breath shallow, every nerve coiled. Kael peered through the broken slats of a furnace wall, scanning the empty courtyard beyond. The setting sun cast blood-orange light through the cracks, smearing the shadows like spilled oil.
"They're not here yet," he said quietly. "But they will be."
Ember didn't answer. Her fingers brushed the cloth-wrapped crown inside her satchel. It pulsed faintly—warmer when Kael drew near. As if it recognized something in him.
She didn't like that.
"I need answers," she said finally.
Kael turned, brows raised.
"I just saved your life."
"You also knew about the crown. And me. And you led me here without saying why."
He shrugged with infuriating calm. "You needed to live. Now you want the details?"
"Yes."
He leaned against the furnace wall, folding his arms. "You're not the only one who's been waiting for the Flame King's fall."
"Then who are you really?"
A pause.
"My name is Kael Dareth. Son of the Ash Rebellion's last commander. Killed six years ago by royal decree. I've been hiding in plain sight ever since—smuggling relics, rescuing marked mages, watching the court rot from the inside out."
"You're a rebel."
"I'm what's left of one."
"And you think helping me helps your cause?"
"I think you are the cause."
Ember stood straighter, scowling. "I never asked to be part of your rebellion."
"No. But you stole the crown. That makes you its flame."
The words echoed. Crown. Flame. Cause. She was just trying to survive—and now strangers were pinning revolutions on her.
"I didn't steal it for a rebellion," she muttered. "I stole it because it was mine."
Kael's expression shifted—sharper, eyes gleaming. "You believe that?"
"I don't know what I believe. But I know it called to me. And I know my blood answered."
A long pause.
Then he said, quietly, "Then we better make sure it doesn't get taken back."
They left the foundry by moonlight, slipping through a crack in the stone wall Kael swore led to the old rebellion tunnels. Ember followed him through twisting corridors, ducking under collapsed beams and weaving through dust-choked halls lit only by flickering stones.
The silence between them grew heavier with every step.
Finally, Kael broke it. "That first night you used fire—was it instinct or rage?"
She glanced at him. "I wasn't trying to use anything. It just… happened."
He nodded. "Most firebloods burn out before they learn control. You didn't."
Ember's jaw tightened. "I didn't have a choice."
Kael looked at her for a long moment. "Neither did I."
They reached the rebel hideout just before dawn.
It was tucked inside the belly of a forgotten forge beneath the cliffs—a place long lost to history and soot. The entrance was sealed by fire-scripts only visible under moonlight. Kael pressed his palm to a charred rune-stone, and the metal door groaned open.
Inside were the bones of a war that had never truly ended: stolen weapons, old maps, tattered banners. And people—few, worn, fierce-eyed.
"Welcome to the Ashwake," Kael said.
A tall woman with ash-grey braids stepped forward. "You brought her?"
"She brought herself," he replied. "I just gave her a path."
The woman eyed Ember warily. "We lost good men the last time someone 'brought hope.' Don't expect a warm welcome."
"I'm not here to be welcomed," Ember said. "I just need time. And answers."
The woman grunted and walked off.
"Who was that?" Ember asked.
Kael smirked. "That's Mira. Former general. Don't take her tone personally. She once stabbed a king's envoy with a soup spoon."
"Charming."
Kael led her to a smaller chamber at the back. "This will be your room. For now."
She looked at the modest bedroll and the cracked walls.
It was more than she'd had in months.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
He turned to leave—then paused. "Rest. You'll need it. We train at dusk. If you want to survive, you'll need to learn how to wield what's inside you."
She nodded, but before he stepped through the curtain, she called out.
"Kael?"
He looked back.
"You said earlier—'we're fugitives together.' What does that mean?"
A flicker of something crossed his face. Almost regret. Almost hope.
"It means we're both running from something that won't stop until we turn and fight it."
Elsewhere — The Citadel of Embers
Flame King Tharos stood before the Vault Mirror, watching the crown's absence reflect back like a wound. His golden armor gleamed in the firelight, his face unreadable beneath the scorched steel helm.
"She has it," he said.
A captain knelt behind him. "My king, we've narrowed the district. Her trail leads south."
Tharos did not move. "She doesn't know what it carries. What she carries."
"She will be found."
Tharos turned then, slowly. His eyes burned red-gold. Ancient. Merciless.
"No," he said. "She will be shaped. The crown chose her. Which means she was meant to burn."