The journey to the north was not quiet.
Elyra hadn't slept since the Pale Flame shattered. Her thoughts flickered and flared like coals in a hearth, refusing to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Starflame screaming. Not with pain, but fury—raw, ancient, and all-consuming.
She felt it like a tether pulling at her spine. Starflame was calling her. But the call wasn't kind.
Kael rode beside her, his posture rigid, his silence thunderous. Even when he wasn't looking at her, she felt the weight of his focus, like a shadow just behind her shoulder. He was unraveling too, in his own way—sharpening weapons that didn't need sharpening, staring into the fire with that look that said he was fighting something he couldn't name.
And Vespera—gods, Vespera had changed.
Since offering her blood to the Pale Flame, something about her had gone brittle. Her voice was quieter. Her eyes slower to blink. The scar across her palm hadn't stopped bleeding, even though she bound it tightly every night.
They reached the Obsidian Wastes at dawn on the fourth day.
What had once been a sea of volcanic glass was now fractured by the claws of time and forgotten wars. Shards as tall as trees jutted from the ground at crooked angles, casting long shadows across the frostbitten sand.
Kael pointed ahead. "There. The vaults are beneath the central spire. If the old maps are right."
"And if they're wrong?" Elyra asked.
"Then we improvise."
Vespera coughed—a dry, rattling sound. "There's more here than memory. I feel it crawling under my skin."
They moved carefully. The silence here wasn't like the ruins before. It was deliberate. Like something watching them was holding its breath.
The entrance to the Obsidian Archives was hidden beneath a layer of enchanted glass. Kael touched a sigil carved into the base of a spire, and the ground groaned as it split open, revealing a spiral staircase that descended into darkness.
It smelled of dust, ozone, and bones.
Elyra led the way, her palm glowing faintly as Starflame's tether guided her forward. They passed rows of petrified scrolls, walls etched with dragon script, and old magic humming in every stone.
The deeper they went, the more it felt like the air turned thicker. Not just with magic, but with memory. This place remembered every footstep, every spell, every betrayal carved into its walls. And it judged.
Kael's jaw tightened. "I don't like this," he muttered. "This kind of silence feels like it's waiting for a scream."
A mural caught Elyra's eye—faded and half-burned, but still legible.
It showed a woman with fire in her veins and wings like a comet's tail, standing atop a mountain of ash. Behind her, dragons bowed.
Beneath it: a name.
Elarai. Flamebound. The Last Queen of Fire.
Elyra stumbled back.
Kael was at her side in a blink. "What did you see?"
She pointed. "That's my ancestor. That's her. The vision the wraith showed us. She's the one who made the pact."
Vespera stepped closer. "And if the blood sings true… then you might be the one meant to finish it."
Elyra shook her head. "I'm not a queen. I can barely control my own mind."
Kael's hand brushed hers. "Maybe. But you're the one the flame keeps calling to. That has to mean something."
Far below, something moved. Not footsteps. Not breathing.
A presence.
The air turned metallic. Cold.
And from the dark, a voice echoed—dry as ash, soft as silk.
"Welcome, Flameborn. You are late."
The words didn't echo—they slithered. Elyra's heartbeat stuttered. She turned slowly, her hand instinctively moving toward her dagger, but Kael caught her wrist.
"Don't," he whispered. "Whatever that is, it's older than us."
A figure emerged from the shadows. Not entirely human. Its skin shimmered with obsidian flakes, its eyes twin pits of endless night. Robes stitched from shadows clung to its frame.
"I am the Curator," it said, bowing its head. "Guardian of the forgotten. Keeper of truths unkind."
Elyra swallowed. "Why are we here?"
The Curator tilted its head. "Because you carry the fire. And fire demands to be remembered."
It gestured to the hall beyond. Runes flared to life across the floor. A library unlike anything they'd ever seen unfolded before them—scrolls suspended midair, tomes bound in dragonhide, memories bottled in crystal flasks.
"The Obsidian Archives contain what the gods tried to erase," the Curator said. "The truth of the Flamebound. The cost of their glory."
Kael stepped forward, his voice low. "And what's the price of reading it?"
The Curator smiled, slow and cruel. "Understanding. And once you understand… you can never go back."