The Ember Sanctum did not sleep.
Even in the hours before dawn, its halls thrummed with the heartbeat of fire. Molten veins pulsed within the stone walls, sending a soft glow that chased away shadows. Warriors sparred in the courtyards, their blades ringing in the heated air. Apprentices studied runes, their voices whispering ancient chants. Every moment was filled with purpose.
Elira had never felt more out of place.
She sat cross-legged on the blackstone floor of her chamber, sweat rolling down her temple as she struggled to control the flame in her hands. It flickered wildly, flaring when her mind wandered, dimming when doubt seeped in. Vaelith's voice rumbled through her thoughts, guiding her with harsh patience.
"Do not fear the fire. Fear only yourself. Your hesitation feeds it more than your rage ever could."
Elira clenched her jaw, forcing the flame to shrink, shaping it into a trembling orb. For a heartbeat, it hovered perfectly. Then it exploded, scattering sparks across the chamber. She flinched, cursing under her breath.
From his place by the wall, Marcell snorted. "That went well."
"Don't start," she muttered, brushing ash from her arms.
He leaned back, folding his arms. "I'm just saying, if you're supposed to be this all-powerful heir, maybe you could at least keep a candle lit."
Her glare could have burned hotter than her flame. "You're welcome to try, genius."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'll stick to swords, thanks. Less chance of singeing my eyebrows."
Despite herself, Elira chuckled. That was the thing about Marcell—no matter how heavy the world felt, he could drag her back from the edge with a single well-timed jab. He wasn't just her friend; he was her anchor, her reminder of who she used to be.
But as much as she needed him, she knew he was struggling too. His strength was ordinary among the extraordinary. Here, in the Sanctum, he was little more than an outsider tolerated for her sake. She caught the way the warriors looked at him—dismissive, sometimes pitying, sometimes hostile. It gnawed at her more than she admitted.
That evening, Serenya summoned them to the council chamber.
The hall stretched wide, its ceiling lost in shadow. At the far end burned the Ember Core, pulsing brighter with each passing day, as if it grew stronger alongside Elira's awakening. Around the fire stood a circle of commanders, each armored in obsidian and crimson, their faces lit by the flicker of flame.
"Elira," Serenya began, her voice formal, steady, "it is time you understand the war you were born into."
The flame pulsed. The commanders bowed their heads. Elira felt the weight of countless eyes.
Serenya's gaze never wavered. "The Rift you saw in the sky—it was no accident. It is a wound torn open by the Celestials. They seek to reclaim what was once ours, to extinguish the Heir before she can rise."
Elira's pulse quickened. "The… Celestials?"
"The ones above," Serenya said, her tone like iron. "Once, they ruled all. They demanded obedience, tribute, sacrifice. But the Crimson Heirs defied them, wielding the First Flame against their tyranny. We won our freedom, but their vengeance has never faded. Each Rift is their attempt to break our world anew."
Elira swallowed hard, her mind racing. Celestials. Gods. Enemies beyond the sky. It sounded like myth—but everything here should have been myth, and yet it lived, breathed, bled before her eyes.
"Why me?" she asked softly.
Serenya stepped closer, her ember eyes burning. "Because the blood of the First Heir flows in you. You are the only one who can command the Ember Core. Without you, this world will fall when the Celestials descend again."
The words struck her like chains. Responsibility she had never asked for, crushing her shoulders. She opened her mouth to argue, but Vaelith's voice thundered through the chamber.
"She is not ready."
Every head turned. The dragon stood tall at the edge of the firelight, his form smaller than in the cavern but no less imposing. Smoke curled from his nostrils as his eyes glowed molten gold.
"If she is thrust into war now, she will break. And if she breaks…" His gaze swept across the hall, and for a moment, even the commanders shivered. "…the world burns with her."
Silence followed.
Serenya's jaw tightened, but she did not argue. Instead, she inclined her head. "Then she must be forged stronger. Quickly."
After the council, Elira and Marcell walked back to her chamber in silence. The air between them was heavy, weighed down by truths too large to speak. Finally, Marcell broke it.
"So, gods want you dead. No pressure."
She gave a weak laugh. "Thanks for the reminder."
He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the glowing veins in the walls. "You're really going to do it, aren't you? Train. Fight. Become this heir they want."
Her steps slowed. "Do I have a choice?"
Marcell stopped, facing her. His eyes—so ordinary compared to the ember gaze of the Sanctum's warriors—held a fierceness that stole her breath. "Yeah, you do. You always do. Don't let them make you forget that."
Something inside her softened. She didn't say it, but in that moment, she silently thanked every twist of fate that had made him her friend. Her brother in everything but blood.
But even as she clung to that bond, fate stirred in the shadows.
Far beyond the Sanctum, in the fractured skies above, the Celestials moved. A council of radiant figures gathered in a hall of light, their voices like thunder, their wings stretching across eternity.
"The Heir has awakened," one said, her tone sharp as a blade.
"She must not rise," another growled.
A third figure leaned forward, his halo dimming into shadow. "Then let us cut out her heart before the flame consumes us all."
Their verdict echoed through the heavens.
And in the Sanctum below, as Elira drifted into uneasy sleep, she dreamed of wings blotting out the stars.