A clean burn, silent and sacred. As if the ember itself had decided the room had served its purpose, and now only its memory should remain.
Elira stood in the village square, a patchwork of weathered stone and river-polished driftwood, under the yawning sky. The dawn mist still hung low, wrapping Fenriver in a hush so thick it felt like standing inside a breath that hadn't yet been exhaled.
She held the Emberblade down by her side, the edge pulsing faintly in the dim light. It was neither hot nor cold in her hand, it simply was like an extension of the choice she had made beneath the Hollow Spire.
Tavren stood a pace behind her, eyes scanning the rooftops, hand on his sword. He'd said nothing since they left the Watcher's house. There was nothing left to say.
And then, the earth began to tremble.
A low, steady rhythm. Hooves.
Elira turned toward the northern pass, the narrow bridge of land where the road curved into the hills. That's where they'd come from. Always from the north.
The Sanctum riders appeared like specters through the thinning mist. Twelve in total, their armor a shifting blend of scorched iron and prayer-forged steel, engraved with the old sigils of Ember Purity. Ash-white cloaks billowed behind them like torn wings.
At their head rode a woman on a silver-black mare, her armor etched with bone-colored runes that pulsed faintly like candlelight.
Her hair was braided into tight coils, dyed silver and bound with tiny rings that sang softly when she moved.
She did not wear a helm.
Her eyes glowed a dull orange, not lit by magic, but by conviction.
"Inquisitor Maehrin," Tavren muttered behind Elira. "One of the Scorch-Hands. Ravel's personal circle."
Elira didn't flinch. Her grip on the Emberblade tightened.
The villagers peeked from windows and behind carts. No one spoke. No one ran. They had seen this before.
Maehrin pulled her horse to a stop at the edge of the square and surveyed the scene.
"Elira of Ashvale," she said, voice low, carrying. "You have trespassed upon sacred bounds. You carry what is forbidden. You wield the rootflame without sanction. In the name of the Sanctum, lay down your weapon and kneel."
The air tensed, as though the village itself held its breath.
"I carry what the world forgot," Elira said, stepping forward. "What you tried to erase."
Maehrin studied her. "You bear the seed of the Spire. The oldest ember. Unsealed. Undeserved."
"You say that like you ever deserved it."
Tavren winced. "Elira…"
Maehrin's expression didn't change. But her horse pawed the ground uneasily.
"The flame is not yours to command," Maehrin said. "It answers only to Order. And sacrifice. Not wild things and broken girls."
"Maybe that's why it chose me," Elira replied. "Because I am broken. Because I remember what fire is for."
Maehrin raised her hand.
The first Sanctum rider dismounted. A greatsword of blacksteel slung across his back, veins glowing faintly with branded runes. A Burned One.
Tavren hissed. "They're not supposed to exist anymore."
"They do," Elira said. "Because they can't let go."
The Burned One stepped forward, slow and heavy.
"I'll give you a single chance," Maehrin said. "Kneel now. Or I burn this village to ash and salt the bones."
Behind Elira, an old woman shouted from a rooftop.
"She bears the fox's flame! She stood before the Spire and lived!"
More voices joined. Murmurs at first. Then louder.
"She's the Emberchild-"
"She lit the blade-"
"She chose it-"
Maehrin's expression cracked, just slightly.
Elira raised the Emberblade.
"I won't kneel."
Then everything moved at once.
The Battle of Fenriver
The Burned One charged, blade drawn, flame pouring from his shoulders. Tavren leapt to intercept him, steel meeting embersteel with a thunderclap. The villagers screamed and scattered. Maehrin shouted orders, her voice echoing across the square.
But Elira, Elira didn't run.
She stepped into the chaos, raised her blade, and called the fire to her.
It answered.
The square lit up with violet and gold flame, not burning the stone but awakening it, old glyphs flaring to life beneath her feet. The ember recognized the place. It had history here. And now it had her.
She danced through the first Sanctum knight like wind through wheat. Not killing; unmaking. With each strike, her blade sang, releasing sparks that whispered names she didn't know but felt.
One rider screamed as her sword shattered from within, melted by the heat of something too old to be forged.
Tavren fought at her side, cursing and parrying, moving like a shadow with weight. They had no formation, no strategy, but they didn't need one.
The flame guided her.
And then Maehrin entered the fray.
Inquisitor's Duel
Maehrin's runes blazed as she drew twin whips of chainfire from her gauntlets. They cracked like lightning as she advanced.
"You want to be their symbol?" she snarled. "You want to burn? Then BURN!"
Elira met her head-on.
Whips lashed, she blocked one, ducked the second, countered with a sweeping arc that sent a wave of foxfire hurtling toward Maehrin. The inquisitor spun, one chain wrapping around the blade's hilt. For a heartbeat, they were locked.
Maehrin grinned. "You're not ready."
Elira leaned in. "Neither are you."
She flared the ember from within. The chain melted. Maehrin screamed as metal burned into her wrist and Elira struck her across the chest with the flat of the blade.
Maehrin collapsed in a cloud of ash and smoke.
The square fell silent.
One by one, the remaining Sanctum riders dropped their weapons.
Elira stood in the center of the village, breath heavy, blade glowing softly in the mist. Her hands trembled. Not from fear.
From knowing.
The ember inside her had chosen. And now, so had she.
Later That Night
They buried the dead by the riverbank. The village lit lanterns, not out of mourning, but in defiance.
Elira stood beside Tavren as the Watcher reappeared from the trees, somehow untouched by the battle.
"You've taken your first breath as what you were meant to be," he said. "Now comes the second."
"What's that?"
He looked to the east, toward the Emberfields.
"Reclaim the memory they buried. And find the fox again."