Chapter 29 - The Ember Within

📖 The Ember Within

By Victor Simdrix

Chapter 29 – The Crown of Cinders

The bells of Veyra did not stay silent for long.

By dawn, their echoes had crossed the mountains and rivers, carried by whispers and ravens alike. In taverns, temples, and thrones of stone, the tale spread:

The Emberchild lives.

Across the sea, King Vaelor tightened his crown, his pale eyes sharp as he listened to the news. "A girl born of fire…" he mused, his voice as cold as the marble halls around him. "If the Silver Hand forged her, then she is the key. With her flame, the kingdoms will bow—or burn."

Far to the north, Queen Althira of the Frostlands held council. The frost in her veins trembled at the thought of Nyra's power. "Crown of Cinders," she whispered, staring into the ice mirror before her. "If it rests on her head, the world will melt into ruin. She must be stopped before the fire consumes us all."

And deep in the shadows, beyond royal eyes and noble ears, Darius Ember, the betrayed son of fire himself, smiled. His scarred hand tightened around his sword, heat pulsing through the steel. "So… another child of flame. Let her burn her way across the world. When she is weak, I will take the crown of cinders for myself."

—

In the ruins of the market, Nyra sat with Kael and Nox, still reeling from the truth of her dream.

Her fingers toyed with a shard of blackened stone, its surface still warm. She couldn't forget the words—forged, not born. Every time she blinked, she saw the cradle of fire, the chanting voices, the silver-robed hands that shaped her life before it even began.

Kael knelt before her, his storm-dark eyes filled with something rare: gentleness. "Nyra, you can't let their making define you. You are more than their weapon. You are more than the fire."

Nox leaned against the wall, smirking. "Sweet words, Stormborn. But tell me—how long before her flames consume even you? Heroes always burn brightest… before they burn out."

Nyra's jaw tightened. She wanted to believe Kael. She wanted to shout at Nox. But most of all, she wanted to run from the weight pressing down on her chest.

Suddenly, the night tore open with a roar.

From the north, riders descended—soldiers clad in silver, their armor etched with runes of flame. At their head rode a woman whose presence burned brighter than torches. Seraphine Vale.

"The Emberchild is ours," she declared, her voice sharp as steel. "By right of creation, she belongs to the Silver Hand."

Kael's storm crackled. Nox's dagger gleamed. And Nyra's fire stirred, rising like a beast at the sound of chains.

She stood, the warmth of the ember surging through her veins. For the first time, she did not try to push it down. For the first time, she let it rise.

Flames curled around her hands, golden-red, alive and hungry.

Her voice was steady when she spoke.

"I don't belong to anyone."

The fire roared higher, casting her shadow like a crown made of cinders.

And in that moment, every royal, every villain, every soldier across the realms felt the shift in the air—an ember turning into a wildfire.

The Crown of Cinders had found its bearer.