The wind screamed through the ravine like a banshee. Dorian led Rhea down a narrow, crumbling path, careful not to slip. One wrong step, and they'd tumble into darkness. Torches flickered below, embedded in the rock face, marking a hidden trail. The Ember Pact did not make themselves easy to find.
They passed through a slit in the cliffside—barely wide enough for a person. Inside, the walls narrowed into a stone tunnel carved with old warding sigils. Magic pulsed from them faintly, repelling the scent of death and the pull of the Prophet's choir.
Rhea touched one as they passed. "Who made these?"
"Old ones," Dorian said. "The founders of the Pact. Magi, soldiers, witches, even ex-priests. All people who saw the truth too late."
She looked up at him. "The truth?"
"That the Choir doesn't worship life. They worship control."
He stopped in front of a gate made of rusted steel and ashwood, marked with a glowing brand in the shape of a phoenix. Two sentries emerged from the shadows—one a massive man with a scarred face, the other a woman whose eyes shimmered silver.
"Vale," the man growled. "Back from the grave again?"
"Grave's too crowded," Dorian replied.
The woman narrowed her eyes at Rhea. "Who's the girl?"
"She's why I'm here. She needs protection. She's Pale Line."
Both guards tensed. The woman stepped forward, reaching for Rhea's arm.
"She glows," she whispered. "Just like the prophecies said."
"Then open the gate," Dorian said, already growing impatient. "Before your singing friends catch up."
Inside the Ember Pact's stronghold, the world changed.
The cavern widened into a subterranean city lit by lanterns, glowing mushrooms, and flickering runes. Dozens of people bustled about—blacksmiths, scouts, mages in robes stitched with bones and feathers. Children laughed in the distance. Someone played a haunting tune on a handmade flute. It felt alive.
Dorian's limp slowed him, but Rhea pressed forward, drinking it in.
"These people are… surviving," she said.
"Thriving, even," he nodded. "But don't let it fool you. Every candle down here burns because someone died topside."
They were led through winding halls until they reached the Ember Hall—a central chamber carved from obsidian, lit by an ever-burning flame in the center. Around it sat five leaders, each draped in distinct garb: the Scholar, the Warlord, the Binder, the Flamebearer, and the Whisperer.
The Flamebearer, a sharp-eyed woman with fire-colored braids, stood.
"Dorian Vale," she said. "We feared you were ash by now."
"I should be," he replied. "But something bigger's in motion. I brought her."
Rhea stepped forward. The flame flickered as she did, reacting to her presence.
The Whisperer leaned forward, voice like smoke. "The Pale Line. We thought it myth."
"She's real," Dorian said. "The Choir knows. They tried to burn her with the others."
The Scholar frowned. "Then she must be protected. Or hidden."
"No," Dorian said firmly. "She's the key to ending this."
The Warlord scowled. "We can't wage war on prophecy."
"We won't," Dorian said. "She will."
Gasps echoed around the chamber.
Rhea stepped closer to the fire, its light dancing in her silver eyes.
"I don't know what I am," she said quietly. "But I'm tired of running."
The Flamebearer smiled. "Then we'll teach you how to stand."
Over the next few days, Rhea trained. Not in swordplay, but in control.
The Scholar taught her how to sense the ebb and flow of her inner light—how it responded to emotion, will, and danger. The Binder helped her inscribe her first warding runes—symbols that shimmered when she touched them.
Dorian watched from the shadows, treating his wound in silence, reading from old tomes at night. Each page told fragments of a forgotten truth—the first Choir, the sundering of the Pale Line, the Prophet's rise. All tied to one singular fire.
The fire inside Rhea.
One evening, she found him in the crypt library.
"You keep watching me," she said.
He didn't look up. "That's part of the job."
"You don't trust me."
"No. I trust you more than I trust most. But you're not in control yet. And people like us… when we lose control, people die."
She sat beside him. "What happened to you, Dorian? Before all this?"
He closed the book. "I had a daughter once. She looked a little like you. Brave. Bright. The Choir burned her for speaking out."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded. "Me too. That's when I stopped being a healer."
Later that night, alarms blared—low, deep pulses that shook the ground.
Choir scouts at the surface. Closer than ever before.
Dorian rose from his cot and strapped on his bone-crafted armor. Rhea stood ready in the doorway, glowing faintly. No longer trembling. No longer just a survivor.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded. "Let's show them fire can burn back."