We had escaped the Empire's jaws,
But freedom is a path, not a place.
And the mountains whispered in tongues older than memory:
"Not all fire warms. Some consumes."
🌄 A March Into Myth
The Ember Mountains greeted us with a cold that burned.
By the fifth day after leaving the Bleeding Wall, our legs ached from the relentless climb, our supplies had thinned, and even our flame our sacred gift seemed to dim in the frigid winds of the peaks. Each breath was a shallow labor. The air tasted of old stone and forgotten wars.
"It's colder than it has any right to be," Lyra muttered, rubbing her gloved hands together.
The trail we followed was barely visible a whisper of a path that clung to cliff edges and wove between jagged crags like an old scar. Kaien called it "the Breather's Cut" a secret route once used by flameborn fugitives and smugglers long before the Empire perfected its tracking magic.
"It earned its name," Kaien said, looking ahead with grim eyes. "You take the wrong step up here, and the only breath left in your lungs will be your last."
We pressed forward.
Even with Kaien's guidance, the mountains felt hostile.
Alive.
Watching.
🌫️ The Hunger of the Cold
The wind was sharp enough to flay skin.
Even wrapped in cloaks and with our internal heat flickering beneath our bones, the cold clawed into our cores. At night, we huddled close together around weak fires that flickered low despite our best efforts. The magical embers we conjured sputtered and hissed as if the very air resisted them.
"It's like the cold here isn't natural," Eira murmured on the second night. "As if it's... deliberate."
"It is," Kaien said, feeding dried pine branches into the flame. "These mountains were once battlegrounds. Flameborn ancestors fought the Empire's first mages here. Some say when they died, they cursed the land. Others say their power simply never left."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Rion asked dryly.
Kaien didn't respond.
Because he knew like we all did that these mountains held more than history.
They held memory.
🧟 Remnants of the Past
On the third day, we found the first ruin.
A collapsed stone temple, swallowed by frost, half-buried under snow and scree. Glyphs covered its remaining walls symbols older than Empire script, scorched into the stone with fire that had long since cooled.
Fenn wandered toward one of the statues.
It was a broken sculpture of a woman, her arms raised, flame etched into her palms. Her face had been carved off violently. As if someone had feared her image.
"Who was she?" Fenn asked softly.
Kaien walked slowly to the pedestal. His hand hovered above it, reverent.
"One of the Seared Ones," he whispered. "Early flameborn who refused to submit. Legends say she scorched an entire legion before she was captured. The Empire erased her name. Buried it in these mountains."
"Why come here, then?" I asked.
"Because some flames survive even after death," Kaien said. "And we'll need them for what's coming."
🌬️ The Silver Flame
That night, the mountain winds went still.
Not weak, silent.
No howl. No rustle. No shifting of stone or snow.
Even the fire we lit burned unusually steady, casting long shadows that didn't dance.
Taren noticed it first.
"The flame's… changing," he said, eyes narrowing.
He was right.
The color shifted orange to gold, then a sudden flick to silver.
Not bright.
But ancient.
The flames curled upward and began to shape themselves not randomly, but with intention. A silhouette formed, tall and elegant, wrapped in ethereal robes of silver fire. Her eyes were smoldering stars, and when her lips moved, no sound passed. But her voice rang clearly in each of our minds.
"The fire wakes… again."
Fenn whimpered and pressed against me.
"You carry the seven sparks, though only six are lit.
You walk a path that burns.
Do you come to restore… or to conquer?"
"We came to find freedom," I answered, heart pounding. "To stop what the Empire is doing. To awaken what they tried to kill."
The silver flame figure pulsed with energy.
"Then listen: not all flame is salvation. Some fire remembers what you forgot. Some burns until it devours even hope."
"Who are you?" Kaien asked, voice shaking.
The figure turned toward him.
"You know me. In your soul.
I was there when they took your name.
I waited in your dreams when you were lost.
I am the one the Empire fears to name."
And then she vanished.
The fire returned to normal.
The wind resumed sharp, wild, and angry.
And no one said a word.
🛑 The Ridge and the Watcher
Two more days passed.
On the seventh morning, we reached a stone outcrop overlooking a valley nestled between the mountains.
And what we saw made every step, every frostbitten breath, feel worth it.
A village no, a sanctuary built into the cliffs. Towers of obsidian-stone glowed with inner fire. Bridges connected platforms sculpted from living rock. Glyphs shimmered around the perimeter, pulsing like veins under skin.
Flameborn walked openly. Trained. Talked. Laughed.
A place where they were not hidden.
Not hunted.
"Is that it?" Lyra breathed. "The Haven?"
Kaien nodded. "It's called Ashmere. It's been hidden for over twenty years. My brother brought me here once. Before…"
He trailed off.
But we weren't alone.
A sharp click echoed above us.
From a higher ridge, a figure stood a woman clad in dark flame armor. Her face bore twin scars across her cheeks, and her eyes glowed with emberlight.
She leapt down the ledge and landed lightly.
Speared flame crackled at her back.
"Kaien," she said.
"Mira," Kaien responded. "You're still here."
"You weren't supposed to be," she replied flatly. "You vanished."
"I didn't vanish. I was taken."
Mira's eyes shifted to the rest of us.
"And you brought outsiders. Branded ones."
She drew her spear.
"You know the law. No one enters Ashmere without proving their flame."
"They're not outsiders," Kaien said. "They're survivors. Fighters. They freed the Bleeding Wall."
Mira's eyes narrowed.
"Then they'll prove it. Or burn."