The Flame of Memory still burned.
Not in Ayla's hand, but in her thoughts—every step, every breath felt heavier, as if she now carried the past of a thousand lives. Memories that weren't hers played on the edge of her vision like dying candlelight.
Varra watched her carefully as they descended from the ruins of Halwen, their path weaving through valleys choked by withered trees and stone husks. The wind carried whispers again—not Rift voices this time, but echoes of history. Halwen was behind them, but the flame had marked Ayla. And the world could feel it.
"The second flame lies east," Ayla murmured, eyes distant. "But something else pulls me first."
The Watcher didn't look surprised. "You've seen her, haven't you?"
Ayla turned. "Who?"
He met her gaze. "The Ash-Blooded Queen."
The Fallen Court of Evaris
They journeyed for three days along a crumbling causeway once known as the Skyroad. Its stones floated a foot above the ground—held by forgotten runes—and shimmered faintly at night. Signs of Rift corruption were everywhere: shattered trees bleeding black sap, rivers that murmured secrets, wildlife with glassy eyes that didn't blink.
On the fourth night, lightning broke the clouds and revealed the throne city of Evaris, cradled in a basin of jagged hills. What remained of its grandeur was swallowed by ash. Towers leaned like drunks. Statues wept obsidian. And atop the highest spire, a crimson banner hung motionless against the storm.
"She lives there?" Ayla asked.
"She reigns there," the Watcher corrected. "Even in ruin, she calls herself Queen."
Varra's knuckles whitened around her sword. "She burned her own court when they questioned her pact with the Rift."
"She did more than that," the Watcher said. "She speaks to it."
Ayla felt the Flame of Memory flicker within. Something about this queen… felt familiar. Too familiar.
The Gate of Cries
At the city's edge stood two colossal statues, their faces twisted in agony. The moment Ayla passed between them, a sound filled her ears—a chorus of screams. Thousands of them. Not physical. Not heard. Felt. Inside her skull.
She dropped to her knees.
Varra drew her blade, spinning to find the threat. But there was nothing. Only silence… and ash.
The Watcher placed a hand on Ayla's shoulder. "This is her doing. Her blood binds the city's grief. Stand, child. Show her your will."
Ayla stood.
And the screams quieted.
The gates groaned open on their own.
The Ash Court
Inside, the city was deathless.
People moved through the streets—not alive, but not dead either. Pale figures cloaked in gray, with hollow eyes and silent mouths. Servants to the Queen. Bound by grief and something worse—remembrance. Ayla could feel it pulsing from them. They remembered how they died. And served because of it.
At the heart of the city was a hall of stone and fire. Thrones of bone ringed a cracked dais. And there she sat:
The Ash-Blooded Queen.
Skin like moonstone veined with ember cracks. Hair long and white as frost. A crown of splintered swords sat on her brow, and her eyes—no iris, no sclera—only a burning red void.
She smiled when Ayla entered.
"So, the child of the Sanctuary walks into my court," she purred.
Varra raised her sword.
The Queen didn't blink. "Let her. If she strikes, the city falls with me."
A Conversation Between Mirrors
Ayla stepped forward alone.
"You've seen me before," the Queen said. "In memory."
"I didn't understand it," Ayla answered.
"You do now. The flames show more than fire. They show truth. And I am part of yours."
Ayla's pulse quickened. "Who are you really?"
The Queen stood. "Once, I was called Elendra. High Sentinel of the West Flame. I guarded the memory of Halwen, long before it fell."
Ayla's breath caught.
"You were a Sentinel?"
"I was the last. Until the Rift offered me a better crown."
Ayla's hands clenched. "You betrayed them."
"I survived them," the Queen snapped. "When the Sanctuary fell, did you fight the darkness? Or run?"
Ayla didn't answer.
The Queen smiled again. "Exactly."
A Temptation of Fire
"You have one flame," the Queen said. "But you'll never reach the second without understanding the price."
"I'll pay it."
"Then let me show you what it costs."
With a wave, the Queen summoned fire—not red, not gold, but grey—a flame born of sorrow. It danced in the air, showing scenes from futures that hadn't happened yet:
Ayla kneeling before a burning child.
Varra lying dead in the snow.
The Watcher impaled upon a spire.
A thousand faces screaming her name in rage.
Ayla on a throne of bones, eyes empty.
"These are not visions," the Queen said. "They are paths. You will walk one. The question is: will it be yours… or mine?"
The Flame of Memory flickered inside Ayla's chest.
She stepped back. "You want me to doubt myself."
"I want you to understand yourself," the Queen whispered. "You think the second flame is just another trial? No. It's the price of your soul. Sacrifice is not pain—it is decision."
A Gift and a Warning
The Queen turned, robes swirling like smoke. "Take this."
She tossed Ayla a shard of glass. Inside it, a flickering spark.
"A piece of your possible future. You'll need it to find the second flame."
Ayla caught it, hesitating. "Why help me?"
"Because," the Queen said, voice suddenly soft, "I remember what it was like to believe. And I would see how far that belief can take you… before it burns you alive."
With a flash of grey fire, she vanished.
Aftermath
Outside the court, Ayla and her companions walked in silence.
Only once they reached the ruined gate did Varra speak. "You don't trust her, do you?"
"No," Ayla said. "But I need her."
The Watcher looked at the shard in Ayla's hand. "That's not a gift. It's a trap."
"I know," Ayla said. "But it points east. And so must we go."
Behind them, the throne of Evaris burned with flame unseen.
And ahead of them, the path to the second trial waited… bathed in sacrifice.
The ash-covered city whispered as Ayla and her companions descended the Queen's tower. Though Elendra had vanished, her words clung to Ayla's mind like soot on skin.
Varra walked ahead, too tense for speech. The Watcher lingered at the rear, occasionally glancing at the grey shard in Ayla's hand.
"It's warm," Ayla muttered, more to herself than to either of them. The shard pulsed like a heartbeat, but it wasn't her heartbeat.
The Watcher finally spoke. "It's bound to the Queen's will. That warmth is not comfort—it's possession."
"She gave it freely," Ayla said.
"She gave it like a spider offers a web."
Ayla didn't argue. She couldn't. The moment her fingers closed around the shard, she had seen something—flashes of herself on that throne, surrounded by shadows that wept her name. It had felt good. Powerful. Terrifyingly inevitable.
But it wasn't her path. Not yet.
The Undercity
The Queen had shown them visions, but no clear road to the second flame. Only the direction: east. And beneath the throne room, in the belly of Evaris, Ayla had felt something stir. Something older than Elendra. Something watching.
They took a spiraling stair carved of obsidian. It led beneath the city—through forgotten dungeons, shattered vaults, and prayer halls long abandoned.
At the end of the descent, they found a gate carved into the mountain itself. Black, root-veined, and sealed with a seven-ringed lock.
"What is this place?" Varra asked.
The Watcher's brow furrowed. "Before Elendra, before the Sanctuary even… this was a temple."
"To what?"
"Not to what," Ayla said, stepping forward. "To who."
The shard in her palm pulsed, and the rings turned on their own.
The gate opened.
The Dreaming Depths
The chamber beyond was silent.
Not quiet—silent. Sound ceased the moment they entered. Even their footsteps left no echo. Ayla's heartbeat vanished from her own ears.
The walls were carved with spirals of an unknown language. The air tasted of salt and sleep. A pool of black water rested at the chamber's center. Around it, ancient bones were arranged in a perfect circle—some still clasping weapons, others rotted into dust.
As Ayla approached, the shard glowed brighter.
A voice—soundless—entered her mind.
"We remember you."
Ayla staggered. "What… was that?"
Varra looked panicked. "I didn't hear anything."
"The flame remembers its own. Burned or unborn."
Ayla stared into the pool. Her reflection was not her own. The face staring back wore the Queen's crown. Blood dripped from her lips.
The Watcher grabbed her arm. "This place feeds on choice. That's how the Queen survived here. How she rules."
"But it's not real," Ayla said.
The Watcher hesitated. "Isn't it?"
The Pact Below
From the water rose a figure—not living, not dead.
A creature of smoke and bone, draped in broken chains. Its skull bore seven horns. Its hands were long and clawed, its eyes twin whirlpools of memory.
The Dream-Warden.
It spoke without speaking. Each word was an image burned into Ayla's mind.
"You seek the second flame. But to pass, you must shed the memory of self."
"What does that mean?" Ayla asked.
"To claim fire, you must forget warmth. To hold truth, you must doubt everything. Do you accept this?"
She shook her head. "No. I won't sacrifice who I am."
"Then leave."
The chamber dimmed. The shard in Ayla's hand began to crack.
But she held it tighter. "I won't forget who I am. But I will carry more. More pain. More memory. More truth."
The Dream-Warden paused.
"Then you are unlike her."
"Elendra?" she asked.
"No."
It pointed a claw to the water, and this time, Ayla saw something else.
A child, standing in a storm of fire, surrounded by the screams of gods.
Herself. But not. Yet to be.
The Second Mark
The Dream-Warden lifted a clawed hand and pressed it against Ayla's forehead.
Pain ripped through her—fire and ice and memory all at once. A second flame bloomed inside her chest, coiling around the first. Not quite united, but not separate either.
A second mark. A second path.
When Ayla opened her eyes, she was lying outside the gate. Varra knelt beside her. The Watcher stood with his hand on his blade, as if guarding against unseen things.
"You were gone for hours," Varra whispered.
"I was dreaming," Ayla said.
"And?" the Watcher asked.
Ayla stood, flames flickering behind her eyes. "We head east. The second flame is in the Deadwood. Beyond the Bone Valleys. Past the Spires of Howl."
Varra blinked. "You saw it?"
"I felt it. And something else... something waiting."
She looked at the shard again—it was dark now. Spent.
But her path had just begun.