The Ember Sanctum smelled of ash and fire.
Its halls were carved from black stone that pulsed faintly with veins of molten red, as if the entire fortress had been hewn from the heart of a living volcano. The air was hot, heavy, alive. Every breath burned Elira's lungs, yet she did not cough. Somehow, her body—her blood—welcomed it.
She walked beside Marcell, their footsteps echoing across the vast chamber. Vaelith, the dragon, had shrunk into the shadows beyond the gates, his immense form fading as though melting into the stone itself. Only his presence lingered, a weight pressing against her soul.
Around her, the people of the Sanctum—if they could be called people—watched in silence. Their ember-lit eyes followed her every step. Some bore skin cracked like cooled lava, others sprouted horns, wings, or claws. All of them radiated power. And yet, every one of them bowed their head as she passed.
It unsettled her more than hostility ever could.
Marcell kept close, his hand brushing hers briefly, a wordless reminder that she wasn't entirely alone. But his face was pale, his eyes darting at every flicker of movement. To him, this was a nightmare made real.
Finally, they reached the great hall.
At its center burned a colossal flame suspended in midair, held within a ring of blackstone pillars etched with runes. The flame did not flicker. It breathed—slow, steady, like the heartbeat of some ancient god. Its light painted the walls crimson, casting shifting shadows that seemed to move on their own.
The silver-haired woman who had greeted them earlier stepped forward. She removed her helm, revealing a scar that ran from her temple to her jaw. Despite her harsh appearance, her bow was graceful.
"I am Serenya, Warden of the Flame," she said. Her voice was calm, deliberate. "And this, Heir, is your inheritance."
Elira's throat tightened. "That… thing?" She gestured to the living flame. "That's not mine."
Serenya's lips curved faintly. "You deny it. Yet it recognized you before you even set foot here."
As if in answer, the flame pulsed, brighter, hotter. Elira felt the heat ripple across her skin—not burning, but beckoning. The ember-lines beneath her skin flared in response.
Marcell stepped forward quickly, shielding her. "She doesn't need to prove anything to you. She's just—"
"She is not just anything," Serenya interrupted sharply. Her ember eyes flicked toward him. "And you, boy, are out of place here. Be grateful we allow you at her side."
Marcell bristled, but Elira placed a hand on his arm, steadying him. Her gaze remained on the flame, hypnotized despite herself.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
Serenya turned toward the fire. "It is the Ember Core. The fragment of the First Flame that birthed our world. Once, all kings and queens of the Crimson Heirs drew power from it. But when your bloodline was betrayed, the Core sealed itself, waiting for the true heir to awaken."
Her eyes met Elira's. "It has waited for you."
Elira shook her head, stepping back. "No… there's been a mistake. I'm no heir. I grew up in a fishing town. I went to school. I'm not—"
"You are," Serenya cut in, her tone unyielding. "Your eyes betray you. Your blood sings to the flame. And Vaelith himself bowed to you. Do you think a Guardian of the Seal kneels to mistake?"
The words struck like hammers, but Elira clenched her fists. "I never asked for this."
Serenya's gaze softened, almost pitying. "None of the Heirs ever did."
That night, Elira could not sleep.
They had given her a chamber carved into the volcanic rock, the walls veined with glowing magma. A bed of obsidian lined with silken furs awaited her, yet she sat at the window slit, staring at the smoking horizon. The volcano belched fire into the night sky, painting the stars in crimson haze.
Marcell sat across from her, equally restless. His eyes were shadowed, his voice low. "Do you believe any of what they're saying?"
Elira wrapped her arms around her knees. "I don't want to. But… the dragon, the soldiers, this place… how can I deny it?"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration in his every movement. "Because it's insane, Elira! Dragons bowing, flames choosing you, strangers calling you 'Heir'—this isn't our world. It's theirs. And maybe they're just trying to use you."
She glanced at him, her lips trembling. "What if they're not? What if I really am… what they say?"
Marcell froze, then crossed the room quickly, kneeling before her. His hands gripped hers, grounding her. "Then you're still you. Not their weapon. Not their heir. You're Elira. And I won't let anyone change that."
Her chest tightened at his words, warmth flooding through her even as fear lingered. She wanted to believe him. Needed to. But deep inside, the flame pulsed, whispering truths she could no longer ignore.
You are not hers. You are not his. You are fire's.
Days passed in uneasy rhythm.
Serenya demanded Elira train with the Ember Core. Each session left her trembling, drenched in sweat, as the flame forced her to confront visions of fire and blood. She learned to call sparks into her hands, to shape them into blades and shields, to bend heat as though it were a living extension of herself.
But every victory came with a cost. Each time she touched the flame, it pulled deeper, unraveling pieces of who she thought she was. Memories surfaced—dreams of a battlefield she had never walked, screams of soldiers she had never known, a crown broken in her hands.
At night, she curled against the cold furs of her bed, whispering to herself: "I'm Elira. I'm from Arven. I'm not a monster."
But the flame never let her forget.
Meanwhile, Marcell grew restless. The Sanctum's people did not trust him, whispering behind his back, watching him with eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. He trained with their soldiers, tried to prove his worth, but their strength dwarfed his. Still, he never left Elira's side, even when Serenya warned him: "Loyalty is fragile when tested by fire."
On the seventh night, Elira dreamed again.
She stood in a hall of mirrors, each one reflecting not her own face but versions of herself—some crowned and regal, some bloodied and monstrous, others weeping, broken.
A voice echoed through the endless hall.
You will burn this world.
She spun, searching for its source. "No! I won't!"
The mirrors cracked, splintering with her denial. But from the shards, shadows crawled—winged soldiers, their armor black as night. They reached for her, their voices merging into one.
Heir of flame. Bane of worlds. Surrender to us.
Elira screamed, summoning fire to her hands. The mirrors shattered, the shadows burned, but the words lingered, burrowing into her chest like thorns.
She awoke gasping, sweat soaking her skin, the ember-lines across her arms glowing brighter than ever before.
And in the corner of her chamber, cloaked in shadow, stood Vaelith in his smaller form, eyes blazing.
"You are awakening too quickly," the dragon rumbled. "If you do not learn control, you will consume yourself."
Elira's breath caught. "Then teach me."
Vaelith's molten gaze narrowed. "I will. But know this, child—every lesson will burn away what remains of your old self. By the time you master the flame, the girl of Arven will be gone."
Her heart clenched, fear twisting with determination. "Then I'll hold on as long as I can."
The dragon lowered his head, smoke curling from his nostrils. "We shall see."
The next day, Serenya gathered the Sanctum's warriors. The hall brimmed with firelight, armor gleaming like embers. At the center, the Ember Core pulsed brighter than Elira had ever seen.
"Our scouts confirm the truth," Serenya announced. Her voice carried over the assembly like steel drawn from its sheath. "The Rift has opened wider. The sky's soldiers will descend again. Their target remains the same."
Her gaze fell upon Elira.
"She must be hidden no longer. The world will know the Heir of Fire has returned."
The warriors erupted into cheers, their voices a thunder of reverence. Elira, however, felt her stomach twist.
Revealed to the world? After everything?
Marcell's hand brushed hers under the table, a silent anchor. But even his touch couldn't steady the storm building inside her.
Because deep within the Ember Core, the flame pulsed with hunger.
And Elira realized with a shiver of dread that Serenya was right about one thing.
The world would know she had returned.
Whether it survived her return was another matter entirely.