The night settled heavily over the valley, stars dimmed by drifting ash, yet Ember's sleep never came. The shard's memory still echoed inside her, whispering fragments of an ancient world—a time before fire became a weapon.
She sat by the altar ruins, hands wrapped around a cup of heated rootbrew Eryssa had steeped. The flame inside her no longer roared. It pulsed, deliberate. Purposeful. And now, it pointed—southward.
Orin joined her, wrapped in his travelcloak. "You're not going to rest, are you?"
"I can't," she replied. "The shard showed me a fortress. One that wasn't destroyed. It was hidden in the southern cliffs, carved into stone. It's where the next shard is."
He nodded, unsurprised. "Then we go."
Eryssa, ever alert, approached with blades already sheathed for travel. "There's a name carved in the altar," she said, voice quiet. "I think it belonged to the guardian who sealed the shard here. 'Naelien the Brighthand.' Ring any bells?"
Ember's eyes flickered. The name stirred a tremor in the flame—one of reverence, pain, and fierce devotion. "Naelien was one of the last Flamebearers before the Cataclysm. She wielded not just fire, but memory itself. She… was betrayed."
They buried the name in silence, adding a cairn of stones over the altar. No prayers—just respect.
Their journey resumed at dawn. The path south led through the Emberhollow Wastes, a land scorched black by centuries of forgotten wars. Ruins jutted from the char like bones, and strange wind-whispers echoed through the hollowed land.
It was there, among the black dunes, that the memories found them.
The sky tore open—not physically, but in the mind. Visions lashed out: cities burning, voices screaming, towers crumbling into flame. Ember cried out and dropped to her knees, hands clutching her head as the Triad Flame convulsed within her.
Orin grabbed her. "What's happening?!"
"They're shards of memory," Ember gasped. "Fragments scattered through the Wastes. They weren't meant to be left alone."
Eryssa spun, swords drawn. "Then who's calling them now?"
From the ridge above, a figure emerged—wreathed in black armor, face veiled in molten glass. Around their form flickered shadowflames, twisted echoes of the true fire. They carried no weapon, yet the very ground recoiled at their steps.
"Seeker of the Flame," the figure called to Ember. "You gather what should remain broken."
Ember stood, forcing strength into her voice. "Who are you?"
"I am the Warden of Unmaking," the figure replied. "I guard what your kind destroyed. Turn back, or be buried in your own fire."
Orin drew his blade. "We don't back down from threats."
But the Warden only raised a hand, and the shadows surged forward—phantoms of past lives, echoing screams and hollow flame. Ember reached inward, summoning the shard's memory, and let it shine outward.
The shadows recoiled, shrieking.
"You're not ready," the Warden said softly, almost with pity. "But you will be. When the next memory breaks, we will speak again."
And with that, the Warden vanished in a swirl of ash.
Ember staggered back, breath ragged. The flame inside her pulsed violently, warning her that this was no longer just a quest for knowledge.
It was war.
Not of armies, but of truths—truths buried so deep the world forgot them.
And now, they were rising.