The Great Hall of the Soaring Blaze was a monument to arrogance. Built within the hollowed-out caldera of a dormant volcano, the walls were lined with obsidian and illuminated by eternal braziers. At this hour, the Patriarch, Ignis, was surrounded by his generals, shouting orders to reinforce the perimeter.
"I want every flame-warden on the walls!" roared the Patriarch. "If that old hag survived, she'll be—"
"She'll be what, Ignis?" a voice interrupted, smooth as silk and cold as a tomb.
The shouting stopped instantly. The generals spun around, their hands igniting with orange flames. In the center of the hall, sitting casually on the Patriarch's own throne of charred bone, was a woman. She wore a dress of crimson silk that hugged her revitalized curves, and in her hand, she swirled a glass of their finest volcanic vintage.
"The Blood Rose..." whispered one of the generals, his knees buckling. "Impossible. You were a corpse!"
