The morning sun pierced the ashen veil that had draped the Ember Veil for weeks, casting blood-orange light upon the cliffs and canyons. The Daughters of Ash moved in silence, their rituals complete, their minds bound to the cause. The entire cliffside buzzed with the quiet organization of an army on the brink of motion. Weapons were sharpened, flame relics were blessed, and vows of fire were whispered over steaming cauldrons of molten ink used to anoint the warriors' skin.
Ryon stood at the overlook, watching the horizon beyond which their next target awaited—Fyrhaal, the Citadel of Salt and Ash. Not a city. A fortress. Carved into the canyon walls centuries ago, it had once served as a neutral meeting ground for the southern tribes before the Matriarchal Wars fractured their unity. The sight stirred something ancient in him, as if a memory from a past life pressed against his soul, trying to break free.
