Elira didn't stop running until the city lights swallowed the jungle behind her. The crown pulsed inside her satchel like a second heartbeat, its heat seeping through the leather. Every whisper it sent into her mind felt like a memory she'd never lived.
She ducked into an alley behind the spice market, breath ragged, heart thundering. The city of Virell was alive—vendors shouting, lanterns swinging, guards patrolling in pairs. No one noticed the thief with ancient fire in her bag.
But someone had followed her.
A shadow peeled from the wall, silent as smoke. "You shouldn't have taken it," the voice said—low, male, and edged with something ancient.
Elira spun, dagger drawn. "Too late."
The man stepped into the light. His eyes glowed faint gold, and a mark shimmered on his wrist—a sigil of the Ember Order, the guardians sworn to protect the crown.
"You've awakened something that doesn't forgive," he said. "The crown binds itself to blood. And now, it's bound to yours."
Elira backed away. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one does," he replied. "But the crown chooses. And it never chooses wrong."