The air reeked of smoke and sorrow.
Southwatch burned—not by her hand, but because she hadn't acted fast enough.
Elira stood atop the watchtower, wind tugging at her soot-streaked cloak. Below, the rebel camp reeled in chaos. Tents lay in ruin, torn apart by voidsteel blades and spells cast in silence. The Obsidian Order had come swiftly and without mercy, striking at dawn when the guards changed and sleep dulled even the keenest senses.
She had been warned. Mira's thread had burned warmer yesterday. The sigil on her palm had itched. And yet… she'd hesitated.
Her fire had saved many—but not all.
A pyre was being built now. Quietly. For the children who had come from Embermoor with hopes brighter than armor. For the scouts who had lit the last signal fires. For Nira, the healer who had whispered songs while binding wounds, and whose voice would never rise again.
Auren approached her, armor scuffed, eyes shadowed.
> "We need to move the wounded to the cliffs," he said. "They're still targeting the inner camp."
She nodded numbly.
But something inside her stirred—not grief, not yet. Resolve. And fury.
> "They weren't meant to die," she whispered.
> "No," Auren agreed softly. "But they chose to follow you. We all did."
She clenched her fists, fire crackling faintly beneath her skin. The stone beneath her boots glowed faintly.
> "Then I owe them more than mourning."
> "What are you thinking?"
Elira turned to face him. The fire in her eyes was colder now, focused. Sharpened.
> "The time for sanctuary is over. We take the fight to the Crown itself."
Auren hesitated. "You mean…"
> "Yes," she said. "We march for Solgard."
The ancient capital. The throne's seat. The place where the first Flameborn was betrayed.
But before they could move, they had to rally what remained.
Elira stepped down from the tower, gathering the survivors.
Her voice rose over the wind.
> "We lost many today. Good souls. Brave hearts. But this fire we carry—it was never just for ourselves. It was for them. And now, it burns with their names."
She drew her blade, the hilt etched with the broken circle of her new sigil. Around her, others did the same.
> "We don't hide anymore. We don't wait for fate. We light the way forward."
One voice shouted back: "For the Flameborn!"
Another: "For the fallen!"
And the cry rose into a roar.
Elira turned, her cloak catching the wind like wings of ash and gold.
> "Let the Crown feel the fire it tried to extinguish."
The rebellion moved that night—toward Solgard, toward the end of all things, or the beginning of something new.
---
Like the spark Elira carries, your Power Stones light the fire of this story!
If you believe in the Flameborn, vote now and help "The Crown's Curse" rise through the ranks!
Tap that Power Stone and add the book to your library.