The flames had long faded, but their echo clung to Elara's skin.
She sat in silence, her back pressed against the scorched wall of the inn. The air still smelled of smoke and singed wood, yet all she felt was cold. Not outside—within. A strange, breathless calm had replaced the storm inside her. She had called fire, and it had obeyed.
No one had ever obeyed her before. Not fate. Not truth. Not even herself.
Raphael returned from the hallway, the remnants of the Order's spell still flickering faintly on the floor. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, a cut bleeding down his arm, but his eyes were only on her.
"They'll come again," he said quietly, kneeling beside her.
"I know." Her voice was steady. It surprised them both.
He paused. "How do you feel?"
Elara looked down at her hands. They were no longer shaking. "Like something inside me woke up. And it's... watching me."
"Not watching," he corrected. "Listening."
She met his eyes, searching. "Then what am I, Raphael? A weapon? A curse? You said I could bring ruin."
"And rebirth," he reminded gently. "You are Emberfall's heir. That means your blood remembers power. But what you become—that choice is yours."
Elara pressed her palm flat against the floor. Ash flaked beneath her fingers. "Then I need to learn. Control it. Master it."
Raphael hesitated. "It won't be easy. The Order will keep hunting you. Others too. Some will want to use you. Some to kill you. Some to crown you."
"I don't want a crown," she said bitterly. "I want the truth. And I want to fight for it."
He reached into his coat and pulled something out—a worn piece of parchment, folded tightly. "Then this is where we start."
Elara took it. The paper was rough, edges singed, covered in symbols that looked older than the world itself.
"What is it?"
"The map to the last flame-reader," Raphael said. "The only one who can teach you what fire truly is—and what it's meant to do."
She studied the parchment. The path curved through mountains she didn't recognize, ending at a place only marked in red ink: Solrath Keep.
"Elara," Raphael said, softer now, "this journey—it'll change you. You'll see things you can't unsee. You'll lose parts of yourself."
She met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll find better ones."
A slow smile touched his lips. "Good. Because you'll need every piece of strength to face what's ahead."
Before she could speak again, the sound of footsteps echoed outside. Not like the Order—these were heavier, slower, unsure.
Elara stood, fire flickering behind her eyes. "Who is it?"
Raphael went to the window, pulled the curtain aside a sliver. Then he froze.
"It's a child," he said.
"What?"
They opened the door together, cautiously. A boy, no older than ten, stood in the path, barefoot and covered in soot. His eyes were wide and unblinking.
"Help," he whispered. "They're burning the next village."
Elara felt her heart seize. "Who?"
The boy looked up at her with hollow eyes.
"The ones in silver masks."
Elara's breath caught in her throat.
The ones in silver masks.
Raphael stiffened beside her, the name unspoken between them—but heavy.
The Order of Severance.
"They're moving faster than we thought," Raphael muttered, already grabbing his sword from beside the door. "They don't just want you contained. They want the land razed before you rise."
The boy swayed, eyes fluttering. Elara moved instinctively, catching him just as he collapsed. She knelt, cradling him. His skin burned with fever, and his lips were cracked from heat and thirst.
"There's no time," she said, looking up at Raphael. "We have to help them."
"No," he said sharply. "We head to Solrath. If they know you awakened your fire, they'll be expecting you to act emotionally."
"I'm not acting emotionally," Elara snapped, rising. Her voice shook with fury—but it was a cold, sharpened thing now. "I'm acting like someone who remembers what it's like to watch everything burn and be too powerless to stop it."
She laid the boy gently on the bed and turned back. "I'm not powerless anymore."
"Elara—"
"I'm not leaving them to die."
Raphael hesitated, eyes dark with unreadable emotion. Then, finally, he sighed. "Then we make it quick. In and out. No recklessness."
She nodded once. "Agreed."
He crossed the room, reaching into a hidden pouch at his belt. "Here," he said, pressing a small glass vial into her palm. The liquid shimmered red-gold. "Sunroot extract. It'll strengthen your fire—but it's volatile. Only use it if you're desperate."
She pocketed it. "Understood."
They set out within minutes. The boy slept under the innkeeper's care, and the path stretched ahead like a warning. Smoke painted the sky a deeper black as they drew closer to the village's edge. The wind carried the scent of fear.
And then came the screaming.
They sprinted.
Down the hill, across the trees, over a narrow stream, until the village came into view—buildings ablaze, shadows darting through flames. The silver-masked figures moved like ghosts, silent and merciless, torching everything in their wake.
Elara's blood flared.
She stepped into their path.
One of the figures turned, tilting his head beneath the glinting mask. "The ember rises," he rasped.
Elara raised her hand—and the fire answered. It didn't wait for thought, only will. It surged forward, a wall of gold and crimson slamming into the masked figure and knocking him back into a collapsing hut.
Two more came at her. Raphael was already moving, sword flashing, fast and fluid like lightning made flesh.
But Elara... Elara burned.
Her eyes lit up, her veins singing. The fire didn't just obey—it danced with her. Every breath a command, every flick of her wrist a strike.
The Order had come expecting a girl.
They found a storm.
When the last mask hit the ground, cracked and steaming, Elara finally let go of the flame.
She stood in the center of the ruins, chest heaving, face streaked with ash.
Raphael joined her. "You've changed."
"No," she said, staring at the broken masks. "I've just remembered who I am."
The villagers slowly emerged, blinking through the smoke, staring at her with awe and fear.
One woman stepped forward, tears on her soot-covered cheeks. "You saved us."
Elara met her gaze, steady. "No. I avenged the ones who didn't make it."
The woman bowed. And one by one, others followed.
Raphael watched them, then her. "They'll follow you now."
"I don't want them to," she said softly.
"Doesn't matter. You lit the match. Now the world will burn—or rise—with you."