The clearing erupted into chaos.
The moment Arin raised her hands, the fire answered. It didn't flare wild and untamed like before—it coiled around her fingers, flickering with control she didn't know she possessed. It cast a warm light across the darkened woods, revealing the four cloaked figures now circling her and the Remnant.
The lead shadow stepped forward, his eyes glinting like molten silver. "She bears the Ember Mark," he said. "She belongs to the Court now."
"The flame belongs to no one," the Remnant snapped. She lifted her hand and murmured words in a language Arin didn't recognize. The air shimmered. The ground beneath the intruders pulsed once with a dull red glow.
The man smiled. "Tricks and wards? Old magic dies slow."
Without warning, he lunged.
Arin reacted before thinking. Fire roared from her palms, spiraling out in a broad arc. The blast knocked one of the figures backward into the trees, his cloak catching flame. The others dodged swiftly, regrouping at the edges of the clearing.
"Control it!" the Remnant urged.
Arin tried to pull the fire back. It hissed in protest but swirled down her arms like liquid flame, condensing into her fingertips. Her breath caught in her throat. The power was staggering—but for the first time, she wasn't terrified by it. She was aware of it.
The second attacker struck fast, a curved blade flashing in the moonlight. Arin ducked instinctively, the weapon slicing through the air where her head had been. She rolled, pressed a hand to the earth, and sent a ripple of heat through the grass. The ground sizzled beneath the attacker's boots. He stumbled, then screamed as fire licked up his legs.
The third figure came from behind, silent as smoke. But the Remnant was faster. She flung a pouch of ash into the air and spoke a single word. The ash ignited midair, forming a barrier of fire between Arin and the shadow.
"Infernal child," the lead figure hissed. His cloak burned away, revealing a skeletal frame wrapped in armor made of bone and obsidian. His face was no longer entirely human. His voice deepened, distorted. "The blood of the Ember Queen lives. And so does her curse."
Arin narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"
"We are what your ancestors feared," he growled. "We are the ones who brought her throne down in fire. And we have returned to finish what we began."
He raised both hands, and black flame erupted from his palms. It wasn't hot—it was cold. Icy, suffocating. Arin felt it touch her skin and winced. The cold fire fought her own, wrapping around her flames like vines trying to choke sunlight.
"Resist!" the Remnant shouted. "His fire is hollow—it steals. Yours creates!"
Arin gritted her teeth. The ring on her finger pulsed. She focused—on the warmth in her chest, on the memory of the forge, of flames dancing along steel, of her mother's lullaby she barely remembered.
And the fire answered.
Golden light exploded from her hands, not wild, not angry—but pure. It surged through the dark flames, pushing them back like sunlight scattering fog. The shadow screamed, recoiling, his skin cracking.
"Impossible," he rasped. "You've barely awakened!"
"I'm done running," Arin said. "If you want the fire, come take it."
The clearing trembled as her fire surged. The ground split beneath the attacker's feet. He staggered, snarling, and then—he vanished. Swallowed by shadow.
The others retreated, melting into the forest like smoke in wind.
Arin collapsed to her knees, panting. The fire extinguished itself around her, fading into soft embers in the grass.
The Remnant approached cautiously. "You did well. Too well, perhaps."
Arin looked up, her arms trembling. "What were they?"
"Agents of the Shadow Court," the Remnant said. "They serve the Void Flame—an ancient power that feeds on life, not light. It is everything your lineage was born to oppose."
"They said they brought down the last Ember Queen."
The Remnant nodded. "They did. But not alone. The Empire aided them. Betrayal came from within the court. Someone close to the queen."
Arin stared into the dark forest. "They'll come back."
"Yes," the Remnant said. "And next time, they'll bring more than blades and illusions."
Silence fell between them again. The stars overhead glittered coldly, as if watching with quiet interest.
"I need to learn more," Arin said at last. "Control, history… everything."
"You're not ready for the deeper truths," the Remnant warned.
"I wasn't ready tonight," Arin said. "But I survived. I won. That has to count for something."
The woman studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Very well. At first light, we leave this forest. I will take you to the Ashen Vault. There are others who still remember—hidden away, waiting for the flame to rise again."
Arin rose unsteadily, her limbs heavy. "Then that's where we go."
She turned back toward the clearing—but froze.
The ember stone was gone.
Her blood ran cold.
"I left it here," she said. "By the altar."
The Remnant's eyes widened. "No one took it while we fought. We were the only ones here."
"But it's not here now," Arin said.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the clearing, whispery and low—like flame licking bone.
"Looking for this?"
A figure stepped into the moonlight. Not a shadow this time—but a boy.
The same boy from the village well.
He held the ember stone in both hands, and it glowed like a heart ripped from the earth.
Only now, his eyes were not afraid. They glowed red—bright and burning.
"I remembered who I am," he said, voice layered with something ancient. "And who you are, Arin Valdis."
The Remnant stepped forward. "That boy was touched by something. That's not him speaking."
The boy smiled—but it was wrong. Too wide. Too still.
"I remember the Queen's betrayal. I remember the firestorm. I remember… the throne."
Arin took a step back. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head. "Not who. What."
The ember stone in his hands pulsed once, and the ground split beneath Arin's feet.
And then the forest swallowed her whole.
Arin fell.
Not like slipping or stumbling, but plummeting—as though the earth had opened its mouth and swallowed her whole. The roots and dirt blurred past her in a whirlwind of shadows and ash, her screams lost in the roar of ancient power.
Then, silence.
She landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Pain bloomed across her back and elbows, but it was the stillnessthat terrified her most.
It wasn't just underground.
It was somewhere else.
The space around her hummed—not with life, but memory. The air was thick with smoke and magic, as if she had stepped inside a dying flame still trying to burn.
The walls were smooth stone, etched with glowing red runes that pulsed faintly. She stood slowly, rubbing her aching ribs. Above her, there was no sign of the surface. Just darkness.
"Hello?" she called, voice echoing through the cavern.
No answer.
The ember stone was gone—the boy had taken it. But something here was calling to her. Her ring burned faintly on her finger, pulling her deeper into the stone corridor that led away from the crater she'd fallen through.
She hesitated, but the whisper in her chest—go, go, go—was too strong to ignore.
So she walked.
Each step echoed. The runes on the walls brightened slightly with her presence, responding to her flame-born blood. After a few dozen paces, the corridor opened into a massive chamber carved in the shape of a flame, walls covered in murals of battles, queens, and beasts of ash.
At its center stood a throne—cracked, scorched, but unmistakably regal. Made of blackened stone with veins of glowing ember. It radiated heat, though it had no fire.
Arin approached slowly.
As she neared, whispers bloomed around her like smoke.
You are not ready.
You are the last.
She burned the world for love.
Will you?
The air pulsed, and an image flickered into view above the throne: a woman cloaked in gold and fire—the Ember Queen. Her face looked older than Arin's but was hauntingly similar. Her eyes burned with fury and grief.
"You have come at last," the figure said.
Arin froze. "You're… a memory?"
The queen's image nodded. "A memory, a warning… and a key."
"To what?"
"To the truth the Remnants feared to tell you."
The chamber darkened, and the flames around the queen flickered with shifting shapes—people kneeling, armies burning, shadows rising.
"You are not the first to bear the flame," the queen said. "But you may be the last."
She raised her hand, and a scene unfolded in the air like smoke turned to vision:
A grand city—Embraelle—lit with golden fires and hovering crystal towers, all reduced to ruin in moments by black flames descending from the sky. The Shadow Court, cloaked and skeletal, stood at the heart of it. And beside them—
A man.
Young. Handsome. And crowned.
"He was my consort," the queen said, voice cracking. "My betrayer. He fed our secrets to the Court and lit the first spark of the Empire's conquest."
Arin felt her chest tighten. "Why?"
"For power. And because he feared what the flame made me. What it made us."
She turned her gaze back to Arin. "Your blood carries the last strand of that power. The world will come for you—not just the Empire. The gods, the Court, the broken remnants of our allies. They will want to use you… or kill you."
The queen stepped down from her illusionary throne, her image shimmering like firelight. "But power does not shape the world. Choice does."
"What am I supposed to choose?" Arin asked. "I didn't ask for any of this!"
The queen's gaze softened. "Neither did I."
The vision faded.
Arin stood alone again, heart pounding, sweat sticking her hair to her face.
From behind the throne, something stirred.
She turned.
A small altar had risen from the ground—stone etched with runes that glowed in her presence. Upon it lay a blade: a curved dagger with a blackened hilt, set with a single red gem.
It pulsed like a heartbeat.
She reached for it—and the moment her fingers touched the hilt, heat surged through her body.
Not pain.
Power.
Images flashed behind her eyes—flames consuming a crown, hands clutching the blade in battle, a voice whispering a name.
"Emberfang."
The name echoed through her bones.
Then another voice—real, behind her.
"Well, that was dramatic," said the boy.
Arin spun.
He stood at the edge of the chamber, ember stone in one hand, his eyes still glowing red. But he was different now—taller, straighter. His voice had a new echo behind it, like two people speaking at once.
"I hoped you'd find this place," he said. "I needed to see if the throne would recognize you."
"What are you?" Arin asked, dagger raised.
He smiled. "Once, I was Ashen. Bound to the Queen by oath. When she fell, I shattered. My pieces scattered across time, hiding in bloodlines."
Arin narrowed her eyes. "So you possessed that boy?"
"He welcomed me," the boy—the Ashen—replied. "He had flame in him, too, though weaker. But I needed you more."
"Why?"
"Because the throne must rise again," he said. "And the fire must be balanced."
He stepped closer, holding out the ember stone.
"I am not your enemy, Arin Valdis. I remember the queen you could become. And I remember… the one you must destroy."
Her grip on the dagger tightened. "You talk like you know my path."
"I do," he said softly. "Because I helped write it. Long before you were born."
Suddenly, the chamber trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling.
The Ashen's eyes flared. "They've found us. The Court. They followed your flame."
He tossed the ember stone to her. She caught it instinctively—and fire erupted in her palm, the stone responding instantly to her touch.
A deep rumble echoed through the chamber. From the murals, something moved. A shadow peeled away from the wall—a tall, cloaked figure of black smoke and bone, its eyes burning blue.
The Shadow Court had arrived.
The Ashen turned to Arin, his voice sharp. "You must choose. Now."
"Choose what?" she asked, heart pounding.
"To flee," he said, "and remain hunted…"
The shadow grew taller, darker.
"…or sit upon the Ember Throne—claim your birthright—and fight."
Arin stared at the cracked throne. At the fire crawling across her skin. At the darkness bearing down on them.
And then she took a single step forward.
The shadow lunged.