The path to Iralith was veiled in firelight and storm.
Even after the revelations of Iskaran Thul, Ember felt the weight of unspoken questions trailing behind her like a second shadow. But with each step toward the distant city of spires and secrets, she felt something else stirring—clarity. Resolve. A fire no longer borrowed, but her own.
They traveled across broken earth and through whispering woods where ancient trees leaned away from the road, as if even the roots remembered what had once passed this way. Rumors of their coming had already spread ahead of them—village elders met their gaze with a mix of awe and terror, while younger voices whispered the name Solara like a prayer or a curse.
One night, as they camped along the edge of the Salt Wastes, Orin returned from scouting, face grim.
"Iralith burns," he said.
Ember rose quickly. "Burns?"
"Smoke's rising from the northern wall. No armies. No siege engines. Just fire… and silence."
They reached Iralith's outskirts by dusk the next day.
The once-great city shimmered in the haze, its ivory towers darkened by soot. Black plumes rose from the rooftops, and the streets echoed with the soft crackling of slow, intentional flame. But it wasn't destruction they saw.
It was cleansing.
As they entered through a collapsed gate, figures in red-and-gold robes turned toward them. Their eyes glowed faintly, and each bore the same mark—a seared spiral over their hearts.
"The Flameborn comes," one whispered reverently. "The Circle foretold your arrival."
Niall whispered, "These are Scorchbinders. Fanatics. They believe fire is divine judgment."
Before Ember could speak, another voice cut through the air—low, powerful, and unmistakable.
"She is not your savior."
From the smoke stepped a woman clad in jet-black armor, her cloak made of cinders that didn't fall. Her hair shimmered like molten glass, and her gaze pierced through Ember like a blade.
"I am Velra, First Flame of the Ashen Circle," she said. "And you walk upon the kindling of our return."
The Scorchbinders bowed, forming a circle around them. Ember stepped forward, her flame stirring to life instinctively.
Velra raised a hand. "You have been lied to, Flameborn. The Remnants speak of peace. But peace is the silence of weakness. The Flame exists to reshape, to purge, to ignite a stronger world."
"I've seen what your kind did to the world," Ember replied, flames rising in her voice. "I won't follow that path."
Velra smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Then you are not ready to carry the Flame. Not as a vessel. Not as a sovereign."
She drew a blade of solid fire from her side. "But you will be tested."
And with a blinding arc, the firestorm began.