The path twisted through the dense forest like a forgotten memory, winding beneath ancient branches heavy with mist. Birds no longer sang here. The deeper they went, the more the world seemed to hush around them—as if the land itself remembered what had once been lost.
Ashara led them now, her steps purposeful. Liora followed closely, her hand occasionally brushing against the trees, feeling something stir beneath the bark. Whispers, almost. Or maybe the ember listening.
"Arvalis was once the seat of the Flamebearers," Ashara said, without turning around. "A city carved from stone and starfire. Before the gods fell."
Kael walked at the rear, ever watchful. "And now?"
Ashara's mouth tightened. "Now it's a grave."
They emerged from the forest hours later onto a craggy ridge. Below them stretched the ruins—half-swallowed by vines, broken columns jutting from the earth like fractured bones. In the center, a crumbled tower reached skyward, blackened at the tip.
Liora inhaled sharply. "I've seen this place."
Ashara nodded. "In your dreams?"
"In the ember."
As they descended the slope, Liora felt warmth pulse in her chest, stronger with each step. The ember was guiding her, drawing her deeper into memory.
When they reached the base of the broken tower, she stopped. Her knees buckled.
Visions struck her—violent and sudden. A woman standing on the tower's peak, flames bursting from her arms. A great winged beast crashing from the skies. A blade of emberlight piercing a god's heart.
She gasped, dropping to her hands.
Kael was at her side in an instant. "Liora!"
Ashara's eyes widened. "She's resonating with the Wound."
"The what?"
"The place where the last Flamebearer died. The ember remembers."
As Liora struggled to breathe, the stone beneath her shifted. Glyphs hidden for centuries flared to life in molten gold.
A hum filled the air.
Then the ground split.
Liora fell—only for Kael to dive and catch her hand at the last second. Below her, a spiral staircase now glowed beneath the broken earth.
Ashara peered down. "It's opening for her."
Kael pulled Liora back up. She was pale, sweat clinging to her brow, but her eyes burned with fire.
"We go down," she said.
Kael hesitated. "It could be a trap."
"It is a trap," Ashara said. "But it's also a trial."
The three descended the spiral, each step echoing with power. As they reached the bottom, they entered a wide chamber. Murals lined the walls—depictions of emberbearers past, gods in chains, wars that had never been written.
At the center stood a dais, and upon it, a sword.
It shimmered with a faint orange glow, humming in tune with Liora's heartbeat.
She stepped toward it.
Ashara whispered, "That's the Flameblade. It was forged from the first ember. Only the chosen may wield it."
Liora hesitated. "What if I'm not the chosen?"
"You wouldn't be here if you weren't," Ashara said.
Liora reached out.
The moment her fingers touched the hilt, the chamber trembled. The sword flared to life—flames racing along its edge, symbols lighting up the walls.
But with the light came shadow.
A figure emerged from the far end of the chamber. Cloaked in tattered red, its face hidden beneath a cracked mask.
"The Scorched One," Ashara breathed. "He was supposed to be dead."
Kael drew his sword.
Liora tightened her grip on the Flameblade.
And in that instant, the ember roared.
So did the Scorched One.
And the chamber became a battlefield.