The tent flap shifted, a faint creak swallowed by the heavy silence. Footsteps followed, deliberate and slow. Sergeant Kessler entered, his boots scuffing against the earth, and stopped by the table. Arms crossed, his shadow stretched across the flickering oil lamp, a dark silhouette that seemed to consume the dim light. The other soldiers remained frozen, pressed against the canvas walls, their faces hidden in the gloom.
Princess Elyra sat rigid, chin lifted, her wrists bound with coarse rope. Her hair was tangled, matted with dirt and the dried blood of the skirmish. Her temple bore a dark streak, but her eyes—stormy, fierce, and blue—refused to dim. The poise of royalty still clung to her, but tension curled around her shoulders like a predator.
"You'll break eventually," Kessler said, voice low and coarse, gravel scraping from the edge of his throat. "We don't need you to talk. Alive, you're easier."
Elyra's lips curved in a faint, bitter smile. "Then fetch your master—John Reinhardt, was it? The 'Silent Hunter' everyone whispers about. Or has he learned to send underlings now?"
Kessler's lip twitched, an involuntary reaction. "He wastes no time on pleasantries. But he'll want to see you. Especially when he learns what you are."
"I'm nothing to him," Elyra said, voice steady despite the strain.
"Is that so?" Kessler leaned closer, the shadow of his body swallowing the table. "Then explain the crest we found - golden fox, scorched into the wreckage, etched into your knights' armour."
Her expression faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, a crack Kessler caught immediately.
"You're not some pampered noble," he continued, voice hardening. "You're the daughter of King Meltas."
A tense silence filled the tent. The air felt heavier, thick with fear and unspoken truths. Then, the flap rustled as another soldier entered. "Sir, message from High Command. General Brandt is en route. The Kommandant is unavailable, he's been deployed to the Northern Front."
Kessler straightened, a smirk forming on his face. "Well then… fortunate for you, Your Highness. Brandt will arrive soon. John isn't here. He might take a liking to you. Brandt is more… refined than John. Rarely growls. Rarely throws people across the room." His eyes locked on Elyra's, sharp and cold. "Pray you still matter by the time he arrives."
He turned and left, boots fading into the dark, leaving Elyra alone. Silence returned, oppressive and suffocating. She lowered her gaze, trembling, knuckles white against grime. Tears traced slow paths down her cheeks, then faster, until quiet sobs wracked her shoulders. Her lips moved in soundless pleas, silent prayers that someone—anyone—would arrive.
Beyond the fortress, the world continued obliviously. In a distant land, far from the clamor of war, a different stir broke the night.
Thalia lay in her bed, sweat soaking her hair and sheet, chest rising and falling too fast. The ember-shaped mark on her palm glowed faintly, a soft pulsing heat that seemed to thrum in rhythm with her racing heart. She clutched the blanket, but it offered no comfort.
Her hand shook as she stared at the mark, hoping to ignore it. "Five more minutes," she whispered. But the mark flared, a soft hiss escaping her lips. The candlelight danced, shadows twisting unnaturally, though no breeze touched the room. The mark reacted to her presence—or to something beyond.
"No, no, no," she muttered, cradling her hand. But the mark pulsed insistently, like a heartbeat mirrored in her palm. Panic rose. She stumbled backward, eyes wide, scanning the room for anything to steady her: cloth, ribbon, anything. Her satchel toppled with a thud as she searched frantically—scrolls, a cracked crystal, a crushed vial of ink—nothing calmed it.
Her fingers brushed a frayed cloth hidden beneath books. She grabbed it, wrapping her trembling hand tightly. Her thoughts surged like storms: heartbeat, breath, silence—all too loud. She tried breathing exercises, counting in and out, ten times. But it failed.
Tears streamed, uncontrolled. She buried her face in her hands, trembling, sobbing silently, utterly hopeless.
A sharp knock shattered the panic, deliberate and cutting. "Thalia? Are you alright?" The voice, calm yet commanding, belonged to Archmage Vidarin.
She flinched, still crouched on the floor. "I'm fine. Dropped something. Just… cleaning up last night's mess."
Silence followed, tense and expectant. The door creaked open—unlocked, forgotten. Vidarin stepped in, robes brushing the floor, staff clicking against the wood. His eyes swept the scattered books, the ink pools, the cloth wrapped tight around her hand.
They softened when they landed on her. "Thalia," he said, almost tenderly, "are you alright?"
She stayed silent, gripping the cloth. His gaze shifted to her hand. "Show me."
"It's nothing."
"Thalia."
Reluctantly, she unwrapped it. The ember-shaped mark pulsed softly, alive, almost sentient. Vidarin's eyes darkened with concern. "I hoped this would never happen in my lifetime," he murmured. "Not again."
Her voice trembled. "What is it?"
He knelt, lowering his tone to a whisper. "A call."
"A call to… what?"
"Not what. Who." He paused, eyes locking onto hers. "You."
She didn't speak, didn't breathe.
"You are not cursed," he said. "You are the Bearer of the Last Light, the final vessel of the forgotten flame. Written in the oldest archives, before empires rose, before the gods went silent."
"I didn't do anything," she whispered.
"No one ever does. The Light chooses when the world falters. Then it marks a warden. Someone to bear the weight of unity."
"I don't understand."
"You will. That mark is not a gift—it is responsibility. It will burn hotter as the world weakens. You will feel it in your sleep, your bones, your breath."
She looked up, pale. "What am I supposed to do?"
He rose, face grave, years etched deeper. "Unite the nations. All of them. Before everything collapses."
"And if I fail?"
"Forests will swallow cities. Seas will drown kingdoms. Stars will vanish one by one."
Silence. The mark pulsed again.
Thalia's breath steadied slightly. She didn't feel chosen. She felt condemned.
"Thalia," Vidarin said softly, "are you alright? This is a lot, but I need to make sure you are safe."
She nodded, hesitant. "Y-yeah… I'm alright."
He exhaled slowly, tension leaving his shoulders. "Good. The Headmaster must know. He will explain prophecies, your title as Warden of the Flame, and everything else—saving the world included. You won't be alone. Friends can help, if their parents allow. The student council would object otherwise."
Thalia let a small, shaky smile escape.
Vidarin offered his hand, playful. "Come on. Let's tell the Headmaster before he collapses on paperwork."
She took it, warmth grounding her amid chaos. The mark pulsed beneath her sleeve, faint and steady. For the first time, the weight felt less like doom, more like purpose. Challenges awaited, uncertainty loomed, yet with Vidarin's guidance, the impossible seemed surmountable.
Her journey had begun. Fear lingered, but hope had taken root. The ember-shaped mark, glowing softly, was a constant reminder: the world depended on her, and she would face it, step by determined step.