The sun had barely crested the horizon when the flames returned—not hers, but black fire, conjured from something older, colder.
It came without warning.
A scream tore through the camp at Southwatch's western ridge. Then another. Then the sky fractured into shadows and fire as the Obsidian Order descended.
Elira bolted upright, barefoot and breathless, her heart already pounding as her tent flared with unnatural heat. Outside, the world was burning.
She burst through the flap.
Chaos.
The nightwatch lay in twisted heaps, their bodies marked with sigils she didn't recognize. Rebels scrambled for weapons, some too slow to rise. Void-borne blades sliced through the air—silent, but final.
> "Hold the line!" someone shouted.
But there was no line left.
Elira's flame surged instinctively, roaring to life around her as she deflected a bolt of shadow aimed for a young scout. Her fire collided with it—and faltered.
Not extinguished.
Devoured.
> "They've sealed the flame!" Mira's voice cried out from the battlement.
And then she saw it: a sphere above the battlefield, spinning in slow, dreadful arcs. A sigil of the Obsidian Order hovered there, leeching magic from the air, siphoning flame like breath from lungs.
> "A null seal," Auren hissed beside her, already bleeding from a shallow cut. "They came prepared."
Elira screamed as she watched one of her commanders—Tarek, the quiet archer who once gave bread to orphans—engulfed by the black fire. Nothing remained but scorched earth.
She charged forward, breaking through ranks of her own people, desperate to get to the seal. Her fire sputtered but did not die. She clenched the golden sigil on her hand.
> Not again. Not like Embermoor.
But the moment she neared the sigil's edge, her body seized. The fire inside her bent inwards, as if trying to snuff itself out.
And that's when she heard the chant.
Obsidian robed figures stood in perfect unison, arms raised. The same chant echoed from every direction, binding the seal with ancient rites.
The rebels were falling. Not retreating—falling. One by one. Her people.
Elira turned toward the ridge, where the last stand was forming. Auren was there, sword blazing with stolen flame, trying to lead a counterstrike.
> "Fall back to the sanctuary!" she roared.
But too many would never make it.
A blast split the earth behind her, hurling bodies into the air. Dust, ash, screams.
She didn't know how long she fought. Only that when the sun rose fully, she stood knee-deep in ruin.
Southwatch had held.
But at a price.
Dozens gone. Maybe more. The sanctuary beneath the chapel was all that saved the rest. The Flameborn sigils protected them from the null magic.
Elira staggered into the remnants of the hall. Her cloak was scorched. Her hands trembled.
> "So this is their answer," she whispered. "Not capture. Not fear. Annihilation."
Auren stepped beside her, his face hollow.
> "We need to leave. They'll be back."
She stared at the burned ground outside.
> "No. We light the beacon. The other sanctuaries need to know. It's war now—not just for power. For survival."
> "And what will you tell them?"
She raised her chin.
> "That I failed to protect Southwatch. That we bled. That I lost people I loved. But we still stand. And we remember."
Her voice didn't waver.
> "The Flameborn do not fade. We burn. And now—we rise."