The crown was heavier than she expected—not in weight, but in memory.
Elira stood at the edge of the temple's threshold, the Ember Crown pulsing in her hands. The flame-mark on her wrist burned brighter now, syncing with the relic's rhythm. Outside, the canyon winds howled like mourning spirits. Inside, the silence pressed against her chest.
She wasn't a thief anymore.
Kael watched from the shadows, his blade sheathed but his stance alert. "They'll come for you now," he said. "Not just Malric. The old ones. The ones who remember."
Elira didn't flinch. "Let them."
The crown flared once—a burst of heat, a whisper of fire—and the temple walls trembled. Symbols long dormant lit up in ember-red, casting ancient prophecies across the stone.
The war had begun.