The man's words hung in the air long after his shape vanished into the haze. The smell of smoke still curled through the collapsed house, as if he had left part of himself behind.
Luke tightened his grip on Iris's arm and backed her toward the exit. "Come on. Now."
Outside, the dawn was pale and cold. A thin column of ash rose from the ruin like a signal. When they reached the car, Iris turned, scanning the field. "You saw him, didn't you? He wasn't—"
"Human?" Luke finished. "No. Not anymore."
They sat in silence, the engine humming softly. The sky above them looked bruised.
Finally, Iris whispered, "He knew my name."
Luke nodded. "And he said she's not done with you. The fire's voice was always female. Emma's voice. Or Mara's."
Iris looked at him sharply. "You think I'm her?"
"I think you're what's left when the fire decides it's not finished."
Her hands trembled in her lap. "Then why am I here? Why give me a second life?"
Luke glanced at the rear-view mirror. For a moment the glass clouded, and a shape flickered in the reflection—the same burned man, watching from the road behind them.
Luke's breath caught. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing.
"Because," he said slowly, "you're the key to ending it."
They drove until the highway dissolved into back roads. By dusk they reached a forgotten town—one of the first sites that had burned years ago. The locals called it Hallow Cross.
The church stood half-collapsed at the edge of town, its bell tower leaning like a broken spine. Luke parked in front.
"Why here?" Iris asked.
"Because this was the fire's beginning," he said. "Long before Ashmere Hill. If the man in the smoke survived, this is where he would've been born."
Inside, the air was thick with soot. Stained-glass windows were shattered, but shards of red and gold still clung to the frames—colors of the fire that haunted them.
On the altar lay a book, half-burned but intact enough to read. Latin letters carved across the cover: Ignis Memoria—"The Fire Remembers."
Iris traced the spine, her fingertips leaving faint trails of heat. "This feels… familiar."
Luke flipped it open. Pages brittle, ink charred, but one drawing remained clear: a figure surrounded by flame, its face divided—half man, half ash. Beneath it, a name: Lucien Morrow.
Luke's breath hitched. "That's him."
"The man in the smoke?"
He nodded slowly. "And the note says he was the first to bear the fire's heart. The first vessel."
A soft crack echoed behind them. Dust rained from the ceiling. Then—footsteps.
Iris turned. "Luke…"
From the far end of the church, the burned man stepped into view, his outline flickering like heat-wave distortion.
"You've found my book," he said, voice calm but hollow. "Good. Now you'll learn why she can't let you go."