Dawn in the Fen was a rare thing.
As the mists receded and the first rays of morning broke through the warped canopy, the land shimmered—not with decay, but with quiet rebirth. Vines unwound from crumbled stones. Pools once stagnant rippled with clean water. The echo of corruption lingered, but its grip had loosened.
Ember stood at the edge of the ruin, the second spark gently pulsing inside her. Where the First Flame had been steady and warm, this one danced—a wilder rhythm, like wind through tall grass. It did not seek control. It longed to move.
Kaelen approached, wiping ash from his blade. "That thing back there—Echo-born. You think we'll see more of them?"
Ember nodded. "We will. They're not just remnants of the old war. They're the voices that refuse to let go of the pain. As we gather more sparks, we'll draw them like shadows to light."
Lysra joined them, eyes scanning the shifting landscape. "Then we'd better move fast. No point lighting the Flame if we get snuffed before we finish the kindling."
Ember smirked. "That's... poetically grim. But fair."
They returned to the Skykeepers' map, now clearer with each reclaimed ember. The next location shimmered faintly in the far northeast—Emberhold, a fortress once belonging to Flameborn warriors before it fell into ruin during the Shattering. Legends claimed it still burned, untouched by time or invader.
Kaelen traced the route. "That's a long march. Through frostlands and fractured memory zones."
"The spark there is old," Ember said. "Older than even the one the Skykeepers held. It might remember things none of us do."
Lysra closed the map. "Then let's give it something to remember."
They set off, the Fen parting as if bowing in silent respect.
Above them, the sky brightened.
The world was watching again.
And for the first time in generations, it was beginning to hope.