The wind whispered secrets through the high grasses of the northern mesa, carrying with it voices that should have been long buried. Ember stood alone beneath a crescent moon, far from her companions, drawn by something she couldn't explain.
Each breath she took tasted like memory.
In the days following her communion with the Flame's Core, the world had not burst into battle. Instead, it had quieted, as if nature itself paused to witness what she would become. But the silence held weight. Not peace—anticipation.
She knelt at the edge of a forgotten ruin: old stones swallowed by earth, half-buried glyphs glowing faintly beneath the soil. The symbols pulsed in response to her presence. Not magic—but resonance. Like two halves of a song reuniting.
Suddenly, the Flame stirred within her.
Not in warning, nor rage—but with something like recognition.
She pressed her hand to the stone, and light spiraled from her fingers. The ground opened, revealing a staircase winding downward into the dark. Ember descended, alone, each step echoing with something older than time.
At the bottom, she found a chamber of stillness. In its center stood a brazier of blackened gold, cold and unlit—but its design matched the Core itself. Around it, six stone thrones formed a ring.
And on each throne… sat ashes.
Not piles. Not remains. Forms—humanoid, intact, as though scorched in place mid-thought. Their eyes were hollow. Their mouths open as if whispering.
Ember reached toward the brazier.
The Flame inside her flared—and the room erupted in light.
Visions crashed into her mind:
Six wielders before her, each chosen by the Flame.
Each fallen.
Each broken by a single question whispered by the brazier:
"What do you burn for?"
When she gasped awake, the room was still. But one of the ash-forms had changed.
Its eyes were no longer hollow.
They glowed with fire.