Ashar moved faster than Ember thought a man with two bad knees and a spine like a bent spoon ever could.
"Pack's already ready," he muttered, tossing a satchel toward her. "Run. South gate. Take the sewer path under the old forge bridge."
Ember caught the bag, but didn't move. "And what about you?"
Ashar snorted. "I'm old, not fragile. They'll expect you to go west with the smugglers. South buys you time."
"Time for what?"
He didn't answer. Just reached into the smoke bowl, pulled out a vial of shimmering ash, and tucked it into her bag.
"Drink that if the fire inside starts to burn your mind."
"Comforting."
"Go, Ember."
The crown pulsed faintly at her side, wrapped in ash-cloth. Its heat beat like a second heart.
She slipped out the back door, hood pulled low, heart hammering.
The bells were louder now. The Flame Guard had reached the outer districts. Their crimson cloaks made them easy to spot in the alleys, but Ember knew this city better than they did. Every soot path. Every hidden door.
Still, her fire itched beneath her skin.
She'd never made it flare on command. Only when she was panicked. Angry. Afraid.
Now she was all three.
She ducked behind a blacksmith's cart, crouching low as two guards marched past. They didn't see her—but someone else did.
A shadow detached from the alley wall.
"You're not very subtle for a wanted woman," a voice said—low, amused, male.
Ember whipped around, dagger drawn.
The man didn't flinch.
He leaned lazily against a broken chimney, dressed in rogue leathers with a hood that shadowed his face. A silver pendant hung from his neck—shaped like a phoenix wing.
Not a guard. Not a street rat either.
"Who are you?" she hissed.
"I'm the one who saw you melt a stone door and burn a Flame Guard's cloak clean off."
"Great. Witnesses."
He chuckled. "Relax. I'm not here to turn you in."
"Then what do you want?"
"Same thing you want, probably. To burn the throne."
Ember narrowed her eyes. "You don't even know who I am."
"Sure I do, Fireborn."
The name made her skin crawl.
No one had called her that except Ashar. And the crown.
"Who sent you?"
"Let's just say… I work for the other side of the flame."
"Riddles. Fantastic."
"I know a safe way out," he said. "The guards are closing in. South gate's a trap."
She hesitated. Ashar said south. This man said otherwise.
She didn't trust either of them.
But she heard it—shouting. Close now. Boots. Metal. The Flame Guard had reached the alley.
He looked at her, calm. "You want to live?"
"…Lead the way."
They ran.
Through the forgeyard ruins, through ash-flooded canals and collapsed buildings from the firestorm years ago. He moved fast, silent, like smoke with legs. Ember kept pace, even as her shoulder screamed and the crown pulsed heavier in her satchel.
"You've done this before," she panted.
He shrugged. "More times than I'd like."
They ducked into an old foundry, now just soot-stained walls and broken gears.
He turned, finally pulling back his hood.
And Ember froze.
He was young. Maybe a few years older than her. Pale gold eyes, dark hair tied back, a faint scar down his jaw. Not bad-looking—too sharp to be handsome, too intense to be forgettable.
And he looked at her like he knew her.
"Name's Kael," he said. "You'll need to remember it."
"Why?"
"Because from this moment on, we're fugitives together."
Outside, horns blew.
Not bells this time.
The Flame King had sent his elite.
Ashar had been right. The throne wasn't just protecting the crown—it was hunting it.