We descended from Obsidian Hall in silence, the violet fire still flickering between my fingers like a second heartbeat. With every step, it pulsed—echoing with memories, not all of them mine.
Elira of Hollowhearth. Elira Flameheart. Elira, the girl who remembered.
Names were starting to feel heavier now. Not burdens, but truths I could carry.
"That wasn't just a vision," Dorian said quietly beside me. His hood was down, the shadow magic dispersed. "You touched the First Flame."
"I think it touched me."
The corridors of Emberthorn looked different in this light. Not broken—bared. The old runes carved into the walls hummed softly now. Secrets peeled back like scorched parchment. The school had always held echoes of the Emberborn's past—but now, the past was answering.
"It's not done with us," Sabine said as we passed under the arch of the Eastern Spire. "This new fire—it's not only memory. It's rewriting the magic itself."
Riven grunted. "Then I hope it writes us something that burns through an Echo's skull."
I half-smiled, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the world had started moving faster.
And we were already behind.
We didn't make it back to the dorms.
The bell tower rang out—once, twice, then shattered into a thousand glimmering shards of sound.
Above us, the sky opened.
Not like a storm. Not like fire.
Like a memory being ripped from the heavens.
A rift bloomed wide above the Academy, tendrils of obsidian smoke pouring from its center. At the heart of it stood a figure—tall, shrouded, crowned in flickering ash.
The Echo of Ash had arrived.
And it was no longer hiding in dreams.
It spoke without sound.
Not words, but impressions. Echoes of things lost.
I saw Hollowhearth again—but this time, I wasn't the one burning it.
I saw Emberthorn—not as it was, but as it would be, if we failed. The halls blackened. The flame extinguished. Memories rewritten into chains.
Then I saw myself.
Standing beside the Echo.
Crowned.
Powerful.
Alone.
I staggered.
"Elira?" Felix caught me before I collapsed.
"I'm fine," I lied.
We weren't ready.
Not yet.
But the flame in my hand burned brighter.
It hissed against the pull of the Echo, resisting the rewrite.
It remembered.
I remembered.
"Gather the Circle," I said, rising.
"Now."
In the Great Assembly Hall—half-collapsed, still scarred from the last incursion—we took our places.
Seven points in a circle.
Seven bearers of fire, story, and scars.
The new flame didn't need ritual.
It needed truth.
So we spoke.
Together.
We rewrote the circle.
Not just in runes—but in who we were.
And as we did, the fire grew.
It roared up from the stone, washing the hall in light. It wasn't just casting spells.
It was telling a story the Echo couldn't overwrite.
A story of pain—but not surrender.
Of loss—but not silence.
Of fire—but not ruin.
The Echo screamed—its voice a thousand false memories collapsing in on themselves.
And for a moment—
It broke.
Just a crack.
Just enough.
I stepped forward.
My hand outstretched.
The violet fire formed a blade.
Not a weapon of destruction—but one of cleaving truth from illusion.
I looked into the Echo's eyes—and for a heartbeat, saw my own face.
The same guilt. The same fire.
The same fear.
"I'm not you," I whispered.
And struck.
The rift didn't close.
Not yet.
But the Echo staggered, reeling into the sky like smoke torn by wind.
And the flame—
Our flame—
Stood tall.