The early morning mist rolled over Emberlight like a velvet curtain, veiling the cobbled streets in a quiet chill. The city was still—no carriages, no cries of merchants or squabbling children—just the hushed breath of dawn and the deep thrum of something awakening.
Kael stood in the bistro's upper balcony, his gaze distant. His hand wrapped around a warm cup of herbal brew, steam curling like phantom fingers. Beneath the stillness, he could feel it—a shift. Like the city itself was holding its breath.
Behind him, Aeris approached, tying her silken hair into a braid. "You felt it too," she said, not asking but confirming.
Kael nodded. "He's not from here. Not from this world—not really. He wears it like a borrowed coat."
"The bone flute," she murmured. "Only one order is known to use such things."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "The Ember Veil."
---
Far below, the cloaked figure walked through the city streets now alive with the morning bustle. His movements were measured, neither hurried nor languid—like a predator at rest. Beneath his hood, pale silver eyes scanned the buildings. His ears twitched slightly—elongated, pointed. An elf, but not of the surface clans. His aura was different.
He entered the bistro just as Kael descended from the stairs. The man's presence washed over the room like cold air—subtle but undeniable. Patrons turned to look, then immediately looked away, as if compelled.
Kael greeted him with a nod, calm and collected. "You're not here for breakfast."
"No," the stranger replied, his voice low and melodic, like a hymn whispered into a tomb. "I'm here for truth."
Aeris emerged from the kitchen, and her eyes sharpened at the sight of him. "You walk freely for one bound by the Ember Veil."
He inclined his head. "The binding was lifted... when the stars began to sing again."
Kael tensed. "What name do you wear now, Herald?"
"I am called Saelith Veyr, Third Flute of the Ember Veil. And I have come to see whether the Flameborn walks among us again—or if the ember that once lit the skies has gone cold forever."
---
In the garden, Lyra crouched beside the flowers, brow furrowed as she concentrated. A tiny orb of flame flickered between her hands—not summoned from magic, but drawn from within. She had begun to feel the fire not just in her veins, but in her dreams.
She saw visions sometimes—blazing wings, a sword made of living light, and a woman whose face was always blurred, whispering her name.
Her flame flickered—then suddenly flared to life, scorching the soil before vanishing.
She gasped.
"That's new," came a voice behind her.
Lyra turned to find Elyra, leaning against the stone arch with her arms crossed. Her usual coldness was gone, replaced by something more... curious.
"You were watching?"
"I was sent to watch everything," Elyra said smoothly. "But I wasn't expecting you to manifest a soulflame."
"A what?"
Elyra stepped forward, kneeling. "That wasn't just fire, little ember. That was your will, made real. And if you're already doing this… then they'll come for you soon."
"Who will?"
Elyra paused. "Everyone."
---
Back inside, Saelith and Kael faced one another in the rear courtyard, away from prying eyes. The elf removed a scroll from his coat and unrolled it.
"Do you swear, Flameborn, to speak truth under the Ember's Oath?"
Kael crossed his arms. "That title died with my old self."
"But it burns in your daughter now," Saelith said, eyes gleaming. "You cannot hide the spark."
Kael's jaw clenched. "I never asked for this power."
"And yet you wield it again," Saelith said, lowering the scroll. "Do not lie to me—I can feel it. You hide your flame behind eggs and meat and morning smiles. But you are still a warrior. A blade dulled, not broken."
Kael didn't answer at first. Then, quietly, he asked, "What's coming?"
Saelith's face darkened.
"Something old. Something born of ice and blood. A king who never died. His followers awaken. And they seek the ember to snuff it out—forever."
---
That night, Kael sat alone by the hearth, staring into the fire.
The world was stirring. The past was crawling back.
And in the center of it all, was Lyra—his daughter, the next Flameborn.
And she would burn brighter than any before her.
But would the world survive her flame?