The fire didn't answer her.
Elira stood amid the smoldering ruins of the ambush site, blood trailing down her arm, her breath ragged. Ash whirled in the air like ghosts, thickening the night.
Mira stepped forward, barefoot, untouched, her hands blazing with controlled flame — black at the core, wrong at the edges. Behind her, the Obsidian Order watched in eerie silence.
> "You never truly understood it," Mira said, voice low. "The Thread. The Flame. You think it chose you? No, Elira. It was only waiting."
Elira's blade hissed as fire surged along its edge. She slashed forward — once, twice — but Mira moved like smoke, too fast, too fluid.
A burst of energy exploded in Elira's chest. She staggered, crashing into stone, ribs cracking against the impact. Blood filled her mouth.
> "I followed the visions," Elira gasped. "I saw the Flameborn before me."
> "You saw shadows," Mira spat. "I became them."
The golden thread on Elira's hand flickered.
She raised her palm, fire roaring toward Mira—only for Mira to lift her own and consume it. The flames bent midair, curling toward Mira like worship.
Gasps rang out from the rebels still alive—watching, unsure, afraid.
> "She's stronger," someone whispered. "Stronger than the Flameborn?"
> "No," Elira growled, trying to stand. "She's twisted it."
But her knees buckled.
Mira approached, kneeling beside her with a mock smile.
> "This rebellion was never yours," she murmured. "The Crown fears you—but they'll kneel to me."
Mira raised her hand again.
And this time, Elira's fire didn't even flicker.
Pain seared across her shoulder as Mira's flame sliced into her. The scent of scorched skin filled the air. Elira screamed, her voice raw, desperate.
The world tilted.
And then—darkness