The Citadel of Emberfall wasn't on any map.
According to the kneeling Wraith, it had been buried beneath the volcanic valleys of Old Vornar, hidden behind veils of fire and illusion. Only those with the Ember-Blood could find it.
Elira stood at the mouth of a long-forgotten cave, where heat shimmered in the air like a living thing. The others were behind her, nervous but silent.
"You sure about this?" Dante asked.
She nodded. "If I don't find out what's inside me, it'll consume me."
As they stepped inside, time seemed to warp. The world flickered between past and present. Shadows of old warriors lined the walls—memories engraved in stone.
Then, they reached the inner sanctum.
At the center of the chamber stood a throne made of charred bones and black crystal. On it sat a woman—alive, ancient, regal.
Her eyes opened slowly.
"Elira," she said, her voice like molten gold. "My name is Seraphine. I am your ancestor."
Elira froze.
"Why did you call me here?"
Seraphine smiled faintly. "Because the Flame is dying. And only you can rekindle it."