The valley below was scorched, but quiet.
Elira stood at the ridge, the Ember Crown pulsing faintly against her chest. The flame-mark on her wrist had spread—thin lines of ember branching like veins. The path ahead led to Solmira, the ancient city whispered about in stolen scrolls and half-buried myths.
Kael crouched beside her. "You sure this is the place?"
She nodded. "The crown remembers."
They descended slowly, the terrain brittle with old ash and broken stone. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with something unseen—memory, maybe. Or warning.
At the city's edge, the gates loomed: obsidian, cracked, etched with symbols that flared as they approached. Elira felt the crown grow warmer. Kael reached for his blade.
The gates opened.
Inside, Solmira was not dead. Figures cloaked in ash stood in silence, their eyes glowing faintly. Not soldiers. Not priests. Flame-bearers.
One stepped forward. "The crown returns," he said. "And with it, the war."
Elira met his gaze. "Then let it begin."