Sleep wasn't supposed to feel like falling.
But Emberlynn fell—downward, weightless, like the world had dropped from beneath her. She tumbled through firelight and shadow, through broken memories that weren't hers and feelings that seared like open wounds. Laughter echoed in reverse. Screams turned into whispers. And somewhere at the center of it all… was a face.
Not hers.
Not Malphas'.
A woman, tall and radiant, with eyes like galaxies collapsing in slow motion.
The same woman from the forest.
The Silver Huntress.
"You are not ready," the vision whispered. "Yet you wake."
She bolted upright, drenched in sweat. Malphas was already awake, his sword unsheathed. Shadows moved strangely outside their tent, silent but pulsing.
"You felt her too," Emberlynn said.
He nodded once, jaw clenched. "Lunaryn. A demi-celestial. Hunter of the Veil."
"Celestial?" Her voice trembled despite the fire that still buzzed under her skin. "I thought demons were the worst of it."
Malphas let out a bitter laugh. "Demons crawl through cracks. Celestials judge them. She's not here for me."
"…She's here for me."
"She felt the Emberclaw awaken. She's bound to silence what threatens the balance. And you, Ember, are a storm with a name."
She didn't move. "Can we fight her?"
Malphas turned to her, his voice quiet but iron-hard. "No."
By dawn, the forest had changed.
Gone were the familiar rustles of life. The wind no longer whispered—it held its breath. Even the birds stayed silent.
Lunaryn was close.
They moved quickly, Malphas leading them along a path only he seemed to see. Emberlynn stayed close, fingers twitching against the fabric wrapped around her gauntlet. She could still feel it breathing. Still hear its pulse matching hers.
"She'll test you first," Malphas said. "She always tests."
"Test me how?"
"With your worst fear."
Emberlynn snorted. "I've seen my past life burned alive. I've walked through dreams soaked in blood. I've heard my name spoken in a tongue older than dirt. What could possibly—"
"Don't tempt the universe."
They reached the ridge of a dead valley. No trees. No birds. Only white ash and twisted stone. Malphas stopped, eyes narrowed.
"She's here."
The air snapped.
The clouds above spiraled into a perfect circle. From it descended silver ribbons, dancing like silk, until they wrapped into a form.
She landed with the grace of falling starlight.
Lunaryn stood taller than either of them, her body cloaked in threads of moonlight. Her eyes shimmered like frost over fire. No weapon. No armor. But her presence pressed down like gravity.
"Malphas," she said, her voice a melody edged in steel. "Still tethered to your ruin, I see."
He bowed his head once. "You knew she would awaken."
"I had hoped she wouldn't." Lunaryn's gaze shifted to Emberlynn. "And yet… here she stands. A child with the breath of fire gods. A vessel of destruction wrapped in mortal skin."
Emberlynn's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to destroy."
"No. You're here to choose." Lunaryn raised a hand, and the air twisted. A ring of light surrounded them. "This is not a battlefield. This is a proving ground. Prove you are not what your past was."
Before Emberlynn could speak, the light exploded inward.
And suddenly… she wasn't there.
She stood in her mother's kitchen.
Lagos. Rain pattering on rusted roofs. The warm scent of pepper soup curling through the air.
Her mother hummed at the stove. Her little brother sat on the floor, building a toy house from bottle caps. Everything was… normal.
Too normal.
"Ember, come eat," her mother said.
She stepped forward. "This isn't real."
Her mother turned—and her eyes were hollow.
"You let us die."
Emberlynn froze.
"You chose to run. You chose fire. You let them burn."
"No—"
The room twisted, walls catching flame. Her brother screamed, but the sound was muffled, distant.
"You think the Emberclaw makes you powerful?" her mother's voice boomed. "It makes you cursed."
Emberlynn fell to her knees, smoke choking her.
Then a voice whispered from the fire:
"You are not your fear."
She looked up.
Her past self stood before her—wreathed in flame, regal, unbroken. The original Key.
"Get up," she said. "You don't pass by surviving. You pass by owning."
Emberlynn stood.
The fire swirled around her. Her mother's image melted away. The illusion cracked.
And then—she was back in the valley.
Lunaryn stood with eyes wide.
The circle of light faded. The ground shimmered where Emberlynn's feet touched. Even the sky had changed—no longer stormy, but tinged with red-orange, like it knew something had shifted.
"You passed," Lunaryn said slowly. "No Key has ever passed without breaking."
Emberlynn's chest heaved. "I'm not the past."
"No," Lunaryn agreed. "You are something new. And I don't know what that means."
Malphas stepped forward. "You'll leave her be, then?"
Lunaryn hesitated. "For now. But if she falters—if she begins to unravel—I will return. And next time, there will be no test. Only judgment."
She vanished in a shimmer of stardust.
That night, Emberlynn sat by the fire, silent.
Malphas handed her a flask of warm tea. She sipped, thankful.
"She saw something in you," he said quietly. "Maybe even feared it."
"She saw my weakness."
"No." He shook his head. "She saw your choice."
They sat in silence a while.
Then Emberlynn said, "I don't want to be a weapon."
"You're not," Malphas said. "You're a reckoning."
Far away, in a cathedral buried beneath mountains, a council of demons stirred.
"She breathes fire again," one rasped.
"And the Huntress did not strike?" another growled.
"She couldn't," said a third, eyes glowing like dying suns. "The Key has changed."
Silence fell.
Then a final voice—ancient, buried, barely more than a whisper—spoke:
"Then it is time. We awaken the Hounds.