The Hollow Flame Monarch loomed over the shattered vault's edge like a spectral guardian—its six obsidian limbs coiled with searing gold-veined flame, each motion precise, silent, and deeply unsettling. It stood unmoving, its presence like the final punctuation mark on a declaration of divine judgment. Behind it, the vault's ceiling had cracked open, exposing faint glimpses of a twilight sky far above—barely visible through layers of rock, ash, and the thick mists that permeated the ruined undercity.
Elara stood alone on the edge of a scorched glyph circle, sovereign fire still coiling faintly from her shoulders. Her breathing had slowed, but the intensity of her gaze betrayed the storm still whirling inside her. The crown that had blazed into existence during her ascension had faded, but not completely—embers of its power still circled above her like lazy fireflies reluctant to die.
She no longer looked like a girl born to rebellion. She looked like anointed flame.
