The Outer District was a graveyard of rusted machines and broken ambition. Crumbling towers leaned into each other like tired old men, and the roads were stitched with cracks that oozed a strange, dark mist. Few dared walk there unless they were desperate—or dangerous.
Elira and Dante moved through the ruins like ghosts. Her flames burned low, just enough to light the path without drawing too much attention. Dante walked ahead, silent, his blade sheathed but fingers twitching near the hilt. He was sensing something. She could tell.
"Talk to me," Elira said softly.
Dante didn't stop walking. "They're here."
A pulse shot through her chest. She felt it, too. A ripple of energy in the air — magic, old and hungry. It licked at the edges of her flame like wind against candlelight.
They turned into what used to be an old marketplace, now a skeleton of stalls and ash-covered bones. A cloaked figure stood in the center, unmoving.
Elira paused. "That the enforcer?"
Dante shook his head. "That's the one trailing him."
The figure turned. Even from a distance, Elira felt the weight of their gaze. Not just powerful — familiar. Her breath caught.
Then the voice came — smooth, cold, calculated.
"Elira of the Ember Line. Alive. I'm impressed."
Her eyes widened. That voice haunted her from childhood. She didn't know the name, but the tone—the pressure—it belonged to the night her house burned, the night her parents vanished.
"You…" she whispered.
Dante stepped forward, blade unsheathing in a flash. "We don't need answers. We need action."
But Elira didn't move yet. Her flames pulsed with confusion and rage. This wasn't just another enemy.
This was a piece of the past, walking.
And the way the figure smiled told her… they'd been waiting for this moment too.