The battlefield still smoldered.
The ground was scarred black, fissures glowing faintly with molten veins. Smoke curled skyward, staining the stars. The First Blade's absence left a silence too vast, too heavy. It pressed down on every soldier who had borne witness.
Elira sat at the heart of the ruin, her knees drawn to her chest, her body trembling. Not with weakness—though exhaustion gripped her like chains—but with the echo of fire still roaring in her blood. The ember had tasted freedom. It did not wish to slumber again.
Marcell knelt nearby, one arm bound hastily with linen, his face pale but eyes unwavering. He hadn't left her side since he caught her in the aftermath.
"You almost died," he muttered, voice hoarse.
She gave a dry laugh. "You too."
"Difference is, I've been almost dying since I was twelve. You're not supposed to make a habit of it."
Her lips twitched into a smile despite the ash on her face.
Serenya stood over them, arms crossed, crimson cloak torn at the hem. She studied Elira with sharp, unreadable eyes. Not pride. Not tenderness. Calculation.
"You've tasted blood," Serenya said at last. "And spilled it. That makes you dangerous."
Elira lifted her chin, meeting that molten gaze. "Dangerous to whom?"
The commander's lips curved faintly. "That depends on who dares stand before you."
The Weight of Victory
The Sanctum rallied slowly. Soldiers moved among the ruins, clearing debris, tending to the wounded. Some whispered her name with awe. Others with fear. To them, she was no longer just an Heir under watch. She was a weapon that could burn even a Celestial.
Marcell noticed it first—the way soldiers stepped aside when Elira passed, the way their eyes lingered too long. He didn't like it. Not because he wanted their attention himself, but because he knew the burden of such stares. They weren't seeing her. They were seeing a symbol.
"You're not eating," he said later, when they sat in the dining hall.
The room was loud with voices, but their table sat in a bubble of silence. No one dared join them.
Elira poked absently at the stew. Her appetite had fled with the firestorm. "I don't feel hungry."
"You have to keep your strength up."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Since when did you become my nurse?"
"Since you started glowing like a living torch," he shot back. "Someone's gotta remind you you're still human."
Her smile faded. "Am I?"
The question hung heavy between them.
Marcell didn't answer immediately. He wanted to say yes. To promise it. But the image of her blazing wings, her voice ringing like fire's roar, still haunted him. She hadn't looked human then. She had looked like something more. Something untouchable.
Finally, he said softly, "You are to me."
She looked down quickly, blinking hard.
Serenya's Lesson
The next morning, Serenya summoned her to the training grounds.
"You fought like a wildfire," the commander said, circling her slowly. "Uncontrolled. Consuming. Effective, yes—but reckless. Fire that spreads without control burns its own home."
Elira bristled. "I won."
"You survived." Serenya's voice cracked like a whip. "There is a difference."
The commander thrust a hand forward. Flames erupted, but not wild—tight, compressed into a narrow spiral, hotter than open fire. It bored a hole clean through a slab of stone.
"Control is what makes fire unstoppable," Serenya said. "Unrefined power is for children. Will you be a child forever?"
Elira's fists clenched. "No."
"Then prove it."
Training began anew. No longer simple sparks and shields. Serenya forced her to compress fire into blades, to weave it into armor, to summon it with precision instead of rage. Each failure singed her skin. Each success felt like pulling lightning through her veins.
At night, she collapsed onto her bed, trembling. Marcell was there with bandages, his gruff silence the only comfort.
"You're pushing too hard," he said once.
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. "If I don't, more will come. Stronger than him. I can't stop."
He looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Then I'll push with you."
The Heavens Stir
Far above, the Celestial Council gathered in their mirrored hall.
The image of the First Blade's defeat still shimmered across the floor. His broken mask lay on the altar like a trophy of shame.
"The ember burns stronger than prophesied," one voice hissed.
"She has tasted battle," another murmured. "And victory."
"She must not reach the School."
The chamber grew colder.
A third voice, older, sharper, cut through the murmurs. "Then we send more. Not blades. Not soldiers. We send shadows. Let her walk into their snare."
And so the decree was made.
Elira's Resolve
Days passed. Her body healed, her fire sharpened. The Sanctum's whispers grew louder, echoing with rumors of a path forward—one that led not into hiding, but into the world.
It was Vaelith, the winged tactician, who spoke the words first. "The Ember cannot be caged forever. She must be tested among peers. Among rivals."
Serenya's eyes gleamed. "The Heaven School."
The name rippled through the hall like thunder.
Elira tilted her head. "School?"
"A crucible," Serenya said. "Where heirs of power across realms are shaped—and broken. If you wish to survive the heavens' games, you must enter theirs."
Marcell's hand tightened into a fist. "She's not ready."
Elira's voice cut through before Serenya could reply. "I'll go."
Both turned to her.
Her golden eyes burned with quiet fire. "If that's where the heavens are watching, then that's where I'll rise. I won't hide in ashes. Not anymore."
Serenya smiled. This time, it was almost… proud.