Months passed since Elara rekindled the Eternal Flame. Solanar rose from its ashes, becoming a city of light once more. But peace was a fragile thing.
The Ember still hovered near her, now dimmer, whispering strange things in the night — names she didn't know, places she had never seen, and a word that chilled her: "Vael'tharin."
Kael, still healing, warned her. "Not all darkness dies in battle. Some slinks away, waiting."
Elara decided she had to follow the Ember's whispers. She had to know what the Flame was warning her about. So she left Solanar with only Kael and Bram, heading east — toward the Sea of Shards.
Legends told of the Singing Depths, an ancient ocean where the Skyborn once descended. It was said to be cursed now — filled with haunted winds and songs that drove sailors mad.
In the coastal city of Thalessa, Elara met Captain Nyra — a seafaring rogue with fire in her eyes and a past she wouldn't speak of. Nyra agreed to take them across the Depths for a price: "Help me find my sister. She was taken by the sea. If the Flame can speak, maybe it can lead us to her."
The voyage was treacherous. Sirens swam below, singing of despair. Storms with blue lightning attacked the ship as if sentient. One night, the sea itself rose — a massive wall of water in the shape of a face, screaming in pain.
The Ember flared, and Elara saw visions of a forgotten city beneath the sea — Vael'tharin, a prison of the Skyborn, where the First Flame had been buried… and something far older.
Beneath the Depths lay ruins, guarded by silence. The Flame led Elara and Nyra deep into caverns lit with glowing coral and bones of star-beasts. They found Nyra's sister — or what remained of her. She was part of a living wall, trapped in a spell older than language.
Elara realized the truth: the Ember had not been the only one.
In Vael'tharin, the Skyborn had hidden fragments of the First Flame, sealing them away to stop their power from being misused. The Ember Elara carried was only a spark. There were others.
But so too were there shadows that had been locked away.
The wall cracked, and a black mist seeped into Elara's thoughts — a voice unlike any she'd heard:
> "Child of Fire… burn or be consumed…"
They escaped with a shard of the First Flame, but the Ember warned her: the seal was weakening. Something called the Ashborne King had awakened.
Back in Solanar, strange events began. Fire turned black. Children were born with eyes that glowed red in the dark. The dead stirred in forgotten graves. The Ember pulsed constantly now, restless and afraid.
Elara summoned the Awakened — those like her who carried slivers of magic. They formed a council, but even they could feel it: a war was coming not between nations, but between flame and void.
And somewhere in the north, among the ruins of the old Skyborn stronghold, a figure wrapped in ash and shadow gathered followers. They called him The Ashborne King, and his promise was simple:
> "The Flame is a lie. Come into the dark. Be free."
To stop him, Elara had to gather the other Flame Shards.
One was buried in the Blistering Dunes, guarded by fire spirits who hated mortals. Another was deep in the Hollowroots, protected by a forgotten druid cult. Each trial tested not just her power, but her will, her heart, her mercy.
As she gathered the shards, the Ember grew unstable. It began to consume her dreams, lighting fires in her veins, sometimes hurting her allies. Kael begged her to slow down, but Elara knew the truth: the Ashborne King was once a Pyrebearer too. The Flame had chosen wrong before.
Was it choosing wrong again?
In a final vision, Elara saw the birth of the Flame — not as a gift, but as a weapon. The Skyborn had used it to conquer entire worlds, not to protect them. When one of their own tried to use it for peace, they imprisoned him: the man who would become the Ashborne King.
He was not evil. He was betrayed.
Now Elara faced a choice: destroy the Flame and end its cycle of power… or burn brighter than ever, risking that same path.
She stood before the final shard, high in the frozen Spires of Soraya, as the Ashborne King waited — not with an army, but with open hands.
"End it," he whispered. "End the
But Elara saw something in his eyes — not peace, but hollow darkness. He had become the void he hated. To end the Flame was to end all warmth, all memory, all life.
She raised the shards. The Ember split and remade itself — not as a weapon, but as a seed. A living flame, shared with the world, not hoarded.
And in that moment, she became not a bearer, but a giver of flame.
The Ashborne King screamed as the light washed over him. Not in pain — in grief. And then
Years later, fires burned in every village — not for warmth alone, but as sacred places to share stories, to remember. Elara never returned to Solanar. Some say she wandered the world, others that she became a star.
The Flame did not rule anymore. It lived among the people — in songs, in hearts, in courage.
And every year, on the day the Flame first died, they lit one small candle in every home.
To remember that even the smallest ember can light the world