By Victor Simdrix
Chapter 15 – The Fire That Breaks Chains
The gates of Valebridge Fortress groaned, iron splintering under Malakar's unseen grip. The soldiers of the realm braced, shields raised, but terror spread like wildfire—no wall could stand against a shadowlord.
Kaelith leapt from the battlements, landing in the courtyard with his blade gleaming. "Hold your ground!" he shouted, voice steady though his blood pounded.
Beside him, Darius Ember whirled his flaming spear in a storm of sparks, driving back the first surge of darkened soldiers. "Then let's bleed before we bow!" he roared.
But Malakar didn't even look at them. His burning eyes never strayed from Nyra.
"Come, little flame," he called again, his voice coiling like smoke around her mind. "Your fire belongs to me. Surrender, and I will spare them."
The royals gasped. The soldiers faltered. Even Kaelith turned to her, searching her face for resolve.
Nyra's heart hammered in her chest. His words coiled inside her, scraping at something buried—memories she couldn't reach. Her knees buckled.
And then, in that moment of despair, Kaelith's voice cut through the haze.
"You are not his, Nyra. You are ours. You are yours."
It was enough.
The flame within her roared.
Her hands ignited—not in a gentle glow, but in an inferno so fierce it painted the courtyard in scarlet light. The air trembled. Stone blistered. Even the soldiers turned their faces away as the heat grew unbearable.
Nyra raised her arms—and the fire exploded outward.
Walls of flame tore across the battlefield, devouring siege towers, shattering rams, turning shadow wraiths to ash in an instant. The night sky glowed as though dawn had come too soon.
Screams rose from Malakar's army. Men scattered like insects. Arrows melted mid-air.
For the first time in centuries, the shadowlord himself took a step back.
"You dare?" Malakar hissed, his voice no longer smooth but ragged with fury.
Nyra's eyes burned with light. "I am not your flame. I am my own."
She thrust her hands forward, and a pillar of fire shot skyward, splitting the storm clouds above. It crashed down upon Malakar like the wrath of the gods.
The earth shook. The fortress quaked. And when the blaze cleared, Malakar stood wreathed in smoke, his armor blackened, but his body unbroken.
"Good," he growled, smiling through the flames. "Burn brighter, little ember. Burn until you break."
Then, with a wave of his cloak, he vanished into shadow, his army scattering with him, leaving the battlefield scorched but alive.
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Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of dying flames.
The royals stared at Nyra as though at something divine—and terrifying. Soldiers bowed, not in gratitude, but in fear.
Even Kaelith, though his gaze softened, could not hide the shadow of worry in his eyes.
Nyra sank to her knees, trembling. She had saved them. She had proven her fire.
But she had also proven something else—
Her power was not just salvation. It was destruction.
And everyone had seen it.