Ember stood motionless before the Remnants, the brazier's flame casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the stone temple walls. Her companions circled closer, hands near weapons, but she raised a hand.
"Let them speak," she said, her voice steady, though her heart pounded like war drums.
The figure of flame—neither man nor woman, but something ancient—nodded solemnly. "We are what's left of those who first shaped the Flame. Keepers of its true memory. When the Ashen Lords chose ascension, we chose remembrance."
"You chose to remain behind," Ember said. "In this ruin."
"We chose to warn the one who would come," another Remnant replied, voice echoing like wind through a hollow mountain. "The one born of both spark and ash. The one whose flame is not yet chained."
"You speak in riddles," Orin growled, sword drawn. "Say what you mean."
Ember held his arm. "Let them."
The flame-figure stepped forward, and the temple responded. Murals along the wall came alive with a low hum. Flame licked the edges of the carvings, illuminating long-lost histories etched in stone.
"You were told the Flame was stolen by tyrants," the lead Remnant said. "That the Ashen Lords corrupted it. That the Flameborn were born to restore balance. But the truth is not so simple."
The mural glowed.
It showed a gathering—dozens of figures, each crowned in fire, kneeling around a central flame. At their feet, lesser beings looked on: humans, elves, fae. The Flame had once been shared freely, not hoarded.
"Once, all people could touch the Flame," the Remnant continued. "It healed. It created. But with each war, with each greed-fueled conquest, the Flame fractured."
Another section flared—depicting the rise of the Ashen Lords. Their eyes blazed not with power, but madness. They scorched entire realms to keep the Flame for themselves.
"They feared what would come if the world remembered," said the Remnant. "So they rewrote the stories. And forged the prophecy of the Flameborn."
The mural dimmed, and the room grew quiet.
Lysra shook her head slowly. "You're saying Ember was… created? A tool of that lie?"
"No," the flame-figure said. "She is hope. Not of prophecy. Of choice. She is the first in centuries to carry the Flame unchained. The one who can decide not to destroy or rule… but to restore."
Ember's breath hitched. The flames within her surged—not in anger, but recognition. For a moment, the temple was filled with warmth, as if the city itself sighed in relief.
"So what do I do?" she asked, eyes locked on the Remnants.
"You go to Iralith," they answered. "And you choose. The Ashen Lords will rise again to claim you. The world will offer you crowns, chains, or blood."
The flame-figure bowed.
"Your path is yours. But should you fall… the Flame will fall with you."
---
Outside the temple, the stars shimmered through drifting smoke.
Ember stood at the threshold, her friends behind her, the weight of truth heavy in her chest—but not crushing.
She turned to them. "No more following old myths. No more fate. From here on, we burn our own way forward."
And as they stepped out of Iskaran Thul, the first light of dawn broke through the soot-choked sky.