The fire had devoured Southwatch.
By dawn, the city was no more than a husk — a charred shadow beneath a red and weeping sky. Ash drifted like snow across the silent fields, settling on armor, on blood, on the unmoving bodies of those who'd believed in her fire.
Elira stood among them, her cloak torn, her hair streaked with soot and ember dust. The warmth that once answered her call was gone, replaced by a hollow ache deep in her chest. Each breath tasted of smoke and regret.
Behind her, the surviving rebels worked in grim silence — binding wounds, counting names that would never answer again. The sound of muffled sobs carried through the scorched wind.
And Auren lay still.
He was pale as morning frost, his chest rising faintly beneath the thin sheet that covered him. Someone had cleaned the blood from his neck and hands, but his lips were colorless — too quiet, too still.
Elira knelt beside him, brushing away a strand of his hair.
"You told me fire rebuilds after it destroys," she whispered. "So rebuild with me, Auren. Please… wake up."
Her voice broke on the last word. The silence that followed was unbearable.
Kael approached from behind, his arm bandaged, eyes hollow. "We've lost nearly half," he murmured. "Mira's blaze tore through the lower quarter. If the wind had turned, none of us would've made it."
"She didn't mean to spare us," Elira said bitterly. "She wanted me to watch everything burn."
Kael hesitated. "And now? What will you have us do, Flameborn?"
She almost told him she didn't know. That she was tired of fire, of loss, of being the light everyone followed until they were burned. But the words lodged in her throat, unspoken.
Instead, she rose.
The horizon flickered with the last traces of Mira's fire — a false sun setting over a graveyard.
In the ruins of Mira's tent, Elira found a half-burned map. Strange symbols, drawn in ember ink, marked several points across Ilyras — one deep in the mountains north of Embermoor. The same symbol she had seen in her vision when the First Flame spoke.
"Mira was searching for something," she murmured. "Or someone."
Lior stepped closer, his face streaked with ash. "Then maybe we should find it first."
A shout came from the camp's edge — a scout dragging in a ragged messenger.
"My lady," the scout gasped, "he's from Embermoor. Says the Obsidian Order's on the move — heading to the capital. They're claiming the throne itself."
Elira's heartbeat quickened. The prophecy, the curse, the fire — it all led back to the place where her fate began.
She looked once more at Auren, then at the blackened ruins stretching beyond.
"No more running," she said quietly. "If this is where fire ends, then I'll end it on my own terms."