It started with a whisper.
A low hiss, like parchment curling in fire, slipping between her dreams and dragging her awake.
"They're coming for you."
Lyra bolted upright in her cot.
The room was dark, quiet.
Vesper lifted his head beside her, rumbling low in his throat.
She wasn't imagining it.
Because in the next breath, a knock came at the door.
Three soft taps. Then silence.
Not a summons. Not protocol.
This was a warning.
She slipped from bed, palm igniting with soft flame, and opened the door—
Thalia Ravenshade stood there, breathless, wild-eyed.
"You need to come. Now."
They ran through the east wing tunnels, past the old bath chambers and into the restricted stacks—sections of the Academy reserved only for Flame Council members and archivists.
"I saw them," Thalia gasped. "Velora and two of the generals. They were in the Catacombs."
Lyra's heart pounded. "Doing what?"
"Planning to confiscate all remaining Ash Crown relics. And if resistance rises—kill the bearer."
Lyra stopped cold. "You mean me."
Thalia nodded grimly.
"I tried to confront her. She said my loyalty was compromised. I barely escaped."
Lyra grabbed her arm.
"Why are you helping me?"
Thalia hesitated.
Then: "Because you're not the threat they're afraid of, Lyra. You're the answer they don't want."
They entered the Catacombs through an old vent tunnel. It smelled of rot, rust, and time.
Ancient glyphs flickered weakly on the walls, and in the distance, Lyra could hear the unmistakable scrape of boots—guards, maybe more.
They ducked into a narrow archive room—shelves stacked high with forbidden texts.
And at the center of the room, locked in a stasis field, floated another grimoire.
But this one was different.
This one bled ash.
Lyra approached it slowly. Her bondstone pulsed with every step.
"This one knows you," Thalia whispered.
"Or remembers me."
She reached forward—and the moment her fingers brushed the field—
Pain ripped through her head.
Flash.
A war room. Flames on maps. Screaming dragons above a dark citadel.
Velora, younger, unscarred, raising her hand as another mage is dragged away screaming.
"The child must be taken. She's too dangerous."
Flash.
A crib. Fire curling in the corners. A woman—her mother?—singing softly as the door is kicked in.
"Protect the heir."
Flash.
A mark burned into an infant's shoulder.
The Ash Crown sigil.
The same as hers.
Lyra fell back, gasping.
Thalia caught her. "What did you see?"
"My mother," she whispered. "She tried to hide me. Velora... she ordered the purge. She knew who I was."
Suddenly, shouting outside the door.
Footsteps. Fast.
Then—Lucien burst in, sword drawn.
"They're coming. We don't have long."
Thalia grabbed the book. "We take it and run."
Lucien looked between them. "To where?"
Lyra's pulse was wildfire now.
"To the one place they won't dare follow."
The three of them moved fast, cutting through the aqueduct tunnels beneath the Academy. The water rushed beside them, the echoes of guards above growing fainter with every turn.
When they emerged, dawn was just rising over the far cliffs. The Academy shimmered behind them, towers catching the light like golden teeth.
"Where are we going?" Lucien asked.
Lyra turned toward the mountains.
"To the ruins," she said. "To where the Ash Crown fell."
They rode their dragons at dawn.
Vesper soared ahead, wings beating thunder into the sky. Zephyr flanked them, frost trailing from his breath. Thalia rode her emberdrake, Vulkara—a sleek, flame-scarred beast with burning eyes and a hiss like cracking magma.
As the Academy disappeared behind them, Lyra felt something settle in her chest.
This wasn't about power anymore.
It was about truth.
And blood.
And fire.
They camped that night at the edge of the Obsidian Chasm. Blackened cliffs dropped for miles into swirling red fog. On the other side: the shattered ruins of the Citadel of Ash—once the seat of the ancient Flame Court.
Now? Just ghost stories.
Or so they thought.
As the sun died, the ground trembled.
Vesper rose instantly, tail coiled. Lucien stepped in front of Lyra.
From the mists… a figure appeared.
Tall. Hooded. Familiar.
The same one from the rift.
Lucien unsheathed his blade. "Back."
The figure raised a hand—not in threat.
In recognition.
"You've come far, Daughter of Ash," it said.
The voice was male. Older. Deep.
Lyra stepped forward, ignoring Lucien's grip on her wrist.
"Who are you?"
He pulled back his hood.
Revealing glowing gold eyes.
And a brand on his palm.
The same brand as hers.
"I am your uncle," he said. "And I've come to teach you what Velora never wanted you to know."
🔥 Teaser ~: Lyra's bloodline is deeper than she imagined. The Ash Crown legacy isn't dead—and the war Velora buried may have just been reborn.