The rubble smoked where the Harrowed had fallen. Stone cracked and hissed as heat bled through its fractures, glowing faintly like dying coals. For a moment, Elara thought it might be over — that her flame had consumed the beast and left only ruin.
But then came the scraping again.
Claw against stone.
Breath like broken glass.
A wet hiss that rattled through the ruined city.
Elara's throat tightened. She could not fight it again, not so soon. The ember within her chest thrummed weakly now, the flame flickering in her hands like a dying lantern. If she pushed it further, the fire would consume her before it ever consumed the creature.
She turned. Her boots sank into ash as she staggered down a narrow street, broken archways looming above her like the jaws of a beast. Every sound seemed louder now — the crunch of her steps, the wind whistling through shattered windows, the low rumble of wings being dragged across stone behind her.
The Harrowed was following.
She could hear it limping, its talons scraping furrows in the earth. Slow, but relentless. The creature did not need speed; hunger gave it patience.
Elara pressed herself against a broken wall, gasping softly, her breath catching on the ash that thickened the air. She whispered to the ember, not words of command, but words of desperation.
"Not yet," she begged. "Give me time."
The ember pulsed once — cold, distant.
She bit her lip until it bled. The flame did not care for her begging. It only knew fire.
The scraping drew nearer. A shadow stretched long across the ground, broken by the jagged ribs of fallen towers. She dared not move. Her entire body stiffened as the Harrowed's twisted beak pushed past the broken stones, its burning eyes scanning the dark.
Then — a sound broke the silence.
Not from Elara.
Not from the Harrowed.
From somewhere deeper in the ruins, a low horn sounded. A single note, mournful and resonant, carried on the wind like the cry of some ancient beast.
The Harrowed paused. Its head jerked toward the sound. The obsidian feathers along its back bristled, trembling in agitation. With a guttural hiss, it turned from Elara and lurched toward the echo of the horn.
Elara pressed a hand against her chest, forcing her breath to steady. Relief mingled with dread. Whoever had sounded that horn had just saved her life — but at what cost?
The ember thrummed softly, as if in warning.
---
She followed.
Cautiously, carefully, keeping to the shadows of broken archways, she tracked the Harrowed as it limped across the ruins. Its wings dragged, leaving streaks of black fluid across the ground. The horn sounded again — closer now, louder, like a challenge.
They reached the courtyard.
Once, it must have been a grand square — wide and open, with a fountain at its center and carvings along its walls. Now, the fountain was cracked and dry, the carvings burned away, and the only light came from the crimson glow of the veiled sun above.
In the center of the courtyard stood a figure.
Cloaked in tattered leather, face hidden beneath a hood of pale cloth, they held the horn in one hand and a long spear in the other. The weapon glowed faintly blue, etched with runes that pulsed like veins of lightning.
The Harrowed screeched, charging forward with a burst of strength. The cloaked figure did not flinch. They planted their feet, raised the spear, and as the beast lunged, drove the weapon deep into its chest.
The runes flared.
The Harrowed's scream shook the ruins, a sound of agony and rage. Fire burst from the wound, not Elara's fire, but something colder — flame laced with blue lightning that devoured the beast from within.
In moments, the Harrowed collapsed, its body crumbling to ash. The courtyard fell silent again.
Elara remained hidden, her body trembling. She did not know whether to approach or flee. The ember inside her stirred uneasily, whispering a warning: Not all flames are allies.
The cloaked figure turned. Their hood fell back slightly, revealing a sharp jawline, a scar across the cheek, and eyes that gleamed faintly silver in the crimson light.
"Come out," the stranger said, voice steady. "I know you're there."
Elara froze.
The ember pulsed hot against her palm, as though preparing to strike.
Slowly, she stepped from the shadows, her silver veil gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her cloak dragged across the ash as she raised her hand, flame flickering weakly.
The stranger's eyes widened. Recognition. Fear. And something else — a question unspoken.
"You," they whispered. "You carry it."
Elara's lips parted, her voice hoarse.
"Who are you?"
The stranger lowered the spear, its runes still glowing faintly. They did not answer immediately. Instead, they studied her — the veil, the flame, the trembling in her stance.
Finally, they spoke.
"My name is Kaelen," they said. "And if you truly hold the Last Ember… then you are not safe here."
Elara's heart pounded. The ember burned hotter at the mention of its name.
She took a step forward, unsure whether it was trust or fear that pulled her closer.
"What do you know of it?" she asked.
Kaelen's gaze hardened. He lifted his spear, pointing it not at her, but at the sky above, where the darkened sun bled its endless crimson light.
"I know," he said grimly, "that it will either save us… or end us all."
---