The fire whispered to Aria in her sleep.
It wasn't a voice exactly—but something older. A language of ember and breath, woven through her dreams like smoke curling through a dying hearth. Every night since her training began, she'd felt it—pulling her toward something deeper, something buried beneath the sanctuary.
Selene had warned her. Power came with echoes. Some were gentle. Others… were not.
That morning, the whispers became louder.
She stood alone on the cliffside, the wind tearing through her cloak. Rowan had returned to his studies with the Obsidian Scribes, and Selene was occupied with interpreting the new sigils that had appeared in the scorched runes of the inner sanctum. The triplets were still away—negotiating, uniting. Every part of their world seemed to be moving toward war, yet here she was… waiting for the fire to speak.
"Come."
Aria turned.
No one was there.
The word had come not from outside—but inside her skull, her veins, her flame.
