Time passed strangely in the Circle's sanctum.
There were no windows. No sun, no moon. Just an ever-burning crimson glow that filtered through the obsidian walls like the breath of a slumbering god. Emberlyn could not tell how many hours—how many days—had slipped through her fingers. Her bindings sapped her strength, the runes biting her flesh, suppressing her fire. Yet she refused to scream again.
Every moment of silence was a victory.
Each time she defied the voices in her mind—the whispers clawing to convince her she was broken, that Seris had died for nothing—was another win.
But she was cracking.
In her cell, Mira appeared again, barefoot and solemn. Her silver eyes shimmered with fascination, but also—Emberlyn began to notice—a trace of doubt.
"Why do you keep resisting?" the girl asked one evening. "No one can hear you. No one is coming."
Emberlyn stared at her. "You think that's why I fight? To be rescued?"
Mira tilted her head. "Isn't it?"
"No," Emberlyn said, voice rasping but steady. "I fight because they fear what I am. And because I remember who you could be, if you were free."
Mira blinked, as if stunned. Then she turned and left without another word.
The seed had been planted.
---
Beyond the Circle's walls, in the shattered ravines of the Hollow Sea, Arenya crouched in the rocks, overlooking the fortress from a high perch. She wore dark armor stitched with old glyphs, and her twin blades—Ashpiercer and Whisperfang—rested across her back.
Beside her, Kael was laying out scrolls and maps stolen from an abandoned outpost.
"The front gate is warded," he whispered. "Magically reinforced. But the side caverns under the ridge—they're unguarded. Probably forgotten."
Arenya gave a grim smile. "Then that's our way in."
From behind them came the low thrum of movement—half a dozen figures stepping out of shadow. Kael had done as he was asked: gathered warriors, misfits, and survivors who still remembered the old flame.
Among them:
Tessar, a one-eyed forge-mage whose family was killed by the Circle during the seizing of Redgate.
Luri, a silent scout who spoke only in signs, but whose knives were poetry in motion.
Havren, a disgraced templar once sworn to a false king, now seeking redemption through fire.
Arenya looked them over and nodded. "This is no longer a rescue mission. This is a warning to the Circle. The Flame rises."
They moved under cover of darkness.
---
Inside the sanctum, Emberlyn was brought before the Council Chamber. Ten masked figures stood in a half-moon, their robes black and gold. The Keeper stood at the center, arms outstretched.
"We offer you release," he intoned. "Shed the false skin. Let Seris go, and be reborn as the Flame Sovereign. Rule by our side."
Emberlyn's laugh was weak, but real. "You want a queen of ash."
"We want a weapon," another voice corrected. It was female—sharp, lilting, and cruel. "Your soul has been reforged once. It can be done again."
Behind her, Mira watched—expression unreadable.
"You think I'm afraid of what you'll do to me?" Emberlyn said. "Go ahead. Burn me. But when I return—because I will return—I won't be chained. I'll be wrath."
The Keeper raised a hand.
Chains of flame rose from the ground, coiling around her. Not iron this time—these were forged from raw pain, carved from her own memories.
They pulled.
---
Beneath the fortress, Arenya's strike team crept through ancient catacombs. Old symbols lined the walls—remnants of the first Flameguard, buried and forgotten. As they passed, Arenya felt them stir. Her presence had not been erased.
They found the inner chamber beneath the prison levels. Luri moved ahead to disable traps, and Tessar whispered a heat-dampening charm across their boots.
But it was too late to be truly silent.
The Circle sensed them.
Dark-robed sentinels poured into the tunnels. The clash of steel and sorcery rang out. Arenya moved like a storm, twin blades dancing in wide arcs, cutting down enemies with deadly precision. Kael loosed arrow after arrow, covering the rear.
Havren stood his ground in the tunnel mouth, roaring defiance as he held off a trio of cult-blades.
Tessar reached the door of Emberlyn's cell and slammed his hand against it. Runes flared. He began chanting.
Inside, Emberlyn felt the heat change.
The air shimmered. The chains faltered.
And then—
Boom.
The door burst inward. Arenya stepped through the smoke.
Emberlyn stared. Through blood and haze and disbelief, she saw the warrior she had once fought beside. Arenya looked older. Sharper. But her fire had not dimmed.
"Seris," Arenya said. "You look like hell."
Emberlyn smiled faintly. "Took you long enough."
Arenya moved to her, slicing the bindings in one stroke.
"I'm Emberlyn now," she whispered. "But she's still in here."
Arenya helped her stand. "Good. We'll need her."
Mira appeared at the threshold—blade drawn.
Everyone tensed.
But she didn't raise it. Instead, she looked at Emberlyn and said, softly, "I saw it. In your eyes. I don't want to become what they made me for."
Emberlyn stepped forward and reached out. "Then come with us."
Mira hesitated.
Then she dropped the blade.
The flame inside Emberlyn surged.
---
They fought their way out, step by brutal step. The Circle unleashed horrors—beasts of smoke and bone, summoned spirits of flame turned inside out. But the rebels were fierce, and the storm had been building for too long.
By the time they breached the surface, the fortress behind them was cracking. Fire spread through its towers, set not by Emberlyn, but by its own failing heart.
As they escaped into the hills, Emberlyn looked back once.
The Circle wasn't dead.
But now it was afraid.
And that was the beginning.
---