Fenriver village sat like a secret, cradled between weeping cliffs and the slow, gray flow of the river that bore its name. Mist curled over the rooftops each morning, and even the stones on the paths seemed to whisper if you stepped just right.
Elira stepped lightly.
She and Tavren had arrived before dawn, cloaked and hooded, slipping past watchfires under cover of lingering darkness. Tavren had spent the last two days warning her: this place was no longer safe. It hadn't been for years.
"The Sanctum watches the river," he'd said the night before. "They fear what it remembers."
Now, in the strange hush of early morning, Elira could feel why. There was something deep beneath the village, beneath the river itself, that pulsed with a rhythm older than stone. Not ember. Not quite. But close.
They crossed a narrow wooden bridge over the water, its planks worn thin by time. Below, the river whispered secrets to the stones. Tavren's hand never strayed far from his blade.
"Where is he?" Elira asked softly.
"North quarter. His name isn't written anywhere, but if you knock on the blue door with three silver nails, he'll answer."
"Do we trust him?"
"We don't have the luxury of trust. Just need."
They passed through twisting lanes, past shuttered windows and closed market stalls. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, but no birds sang here. Not anymore.
When they reached the blue door, Elira hesitated.
Tavren gestured. "Knock."
She raised her hand and paused. The ember inside her trembled. Not in warning. In recognition.
She knocked once, twice… then a third time.
Silence.
Then, the click of a lock turning.
The door opened just a crack.
A man's eye peered out. Mismatched, one brown, one the color of moonlight on still water.
"You're late," he said.
Elira blinked. "You're the Watcher?"
The door opened wider.
He was not what she expected. No robes, no mystic aura. Just an old man in a patched coat, hair like riverstone and a voice like weathered wood. But when he looked at her, she felt it:
He knewher. Not her name, perhaps, but her shape. Her weight in the world.
"I've been waiting since the flame broke its seal," he said, stepping aside. "Come in before it's too late."
Inside, the Watcher's home was cluttered with strange things: glass bottles filled with flickering dust, faded maps inked in foreign tongues, bones etched with tiny runes. A mural covered the back wall; foxes dancing in a spiral around a burning tree.
The Watcher poured tea from a kettle that hummed with ember warmth.
"I've seen a dozen bearers," he said without turning. "None of them reached the Spire. None of them took the root."
Elira sat across from him. "Then why did I?"
"Because you weren't chosen by the ember," he said. "You chose it. That makes all the difference."
She took the tea with both hands. The cup trembled faintly.
"There are things I need to know," she said.
"Of course there are. Truths buried like bones, waiting to rot or bloom."
Tavren stood near the door, tense as ever.
"The Sanctum's closing in," he warned.
The Watcher waved a hand. "Let them come. They don't know what they fear. Not yet."
Elira leaned forward. "What is the ember, really? What am I carrying?"
The Watcher's smile faded.
"The ember is not fire. It is a memory. The first memory, born when the world was still young and the skies bled light. The foxes were its keepers, born not of flesh but story. The ember-born were bridges, between the flame and the flesh."
He looked at her hands. "You carry what the Sanctum tried to kill. The first truth. That the flame was never meant to serve kings."
Elira's breath caught.
"The mural in the Spire," she whispered. "The girl. The foxes. The word VESSEL. That was me, wasn't it?"
"No," the Watcher said. "That was the last. You are the echo. The one who might finish what she couldn't."
He rose, moved to the fireplace, and drew a blade from above the mantle, one not of metal, but hardened flame. The edge shimmered like a heat haze.
"She burned the Sanctum once," he said, "but mercy stayed in her hand. This time, mercy will kill the world."
He held the blade out to Elira.
"I don't need a weapon," she said.
He smiled, sad and soft.
"No. But the world needs to see you carry one."
She took it.
The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, the blade flared gold and violet, rimmed in foxfire.
Tavren stepped forward, stunned. "That's… that's her blade.*"
The Watcher nodded. "The Emberblade. It answers only to the Vessel."
Outside, thunder rolled.
The river's surface shattered with rising heat.
And in the east, fire answered fire.
FAR BEYOND - RAVEL DANE'S WAR ROOM
A scout's wings were charred to the bone. His final breath escaped in a wheeze.
"Confirmed," he croaked. "The girl lives. She bears the Blade."
Ravel Dane turned away from the firepit, eyes glowing like coals.
"So be it," he whispered. "We'll burn the river to salt."