Night fell quietly, but the fire refused to sleep.
The Flameborn camp was nestled in the valley like a glowing heartbeat—soft, pulsing, alive. But within that fire, something darker crept. Not all threats came with claws or flames. Some wore smiles. Some called you sister.
Lyra stood in her tent, reading through war reports when the candle flickered—not from wind, but from presence. She looked up.
The air felt... wrong.
Before she could speak, a blade flashed through the canvas wall.
Reflex. Pure instinct.
She ducked, grabbed the edge of the table, and swung it into her attacker. Steel clattered. The figure stumbled back, hood slipping just enough for Lyra to see her eyes.
A court sigil. Burned into the woman's collarbone.
High Council.
Lyra rolled to her feet, grabbing the twin daggers by her bed. The assassin moved fast—too fast for a mercenary, too fluid for a mere spy. A trained killer. The council didn't send warnings. They sent endings.
