Elira's boots were dusty before she even left the first hill.
The road from Ardain was overgrown, wild with tiny blue flowers and roots that tangled like lazy snakes. Every step away from the city felt like peeling off old armor.
She didn't look back.
Not because she wasn't scared.
But because she was,and she wanted to keep going anyway.
The lantern at her side swung softly.
Its glow was steady.
She followed no map, just a whisper inside her chest that said: Go there. See that. Listen.
The first town was called Hollowbrook.
It had four houses, two goats, and one very nosy baker named Jem.
"You're Elira Flameheart," he said, squinting at her like she might burst into song.
She blinked. "I'm just Elira."
He pointed at the lantern. "You're carrying a flame that doesn't go out. I bake, not battle, but even I know that means something."
She laughed and stayed for two nights.
She fixed the broken bridge.
She helped find a missing cat (which turned out to be a grumpy fox).
She taught the children how to spark tiny lights with their fingers.
When she left, someone had painted her face on the side of the bakery.
"Bit much," she muttered.
The lantern winked.
Days passed like pages turning.
In one village, she stopped a river from eating the farmland by asking the water politely, and promising it stories.
In another, she helped a moon-sick child sleep by humming one of Solin's songs.
In a mountain pass, she fought off a shadowbeast that fed on silence, by laughing until it vanished into giggles.
She didn't wear armor.
She didn't ride a beast.
She walked.
And listened.
And people followed.
Not because she told them to.
But because she saw them.
And they saw her.
Then came the Forest of Breaths.
No path. No stars.
Just trees so tall they held up the clouds.
Elira stepped inside without blinking.
The first day, nothing spoke.
The second day, the trees whispered.
By the third, she met the Watcher.
It had eyes like roots and fingers like wind.
"You bring fire into a place that hates flame," it said.
"I bring light," Elira replied.
"Why?"
"Because someone might be lost."
The Watcher stared.
Then it stepped aside.
She walked deeper.
And found a house made of moss.
Inside sat a girl, no older than eight, hugging her knees, glowing faintly gold.
"Hello," Elira said gently.
The girl didn't answer.
Elira sat beside her.
Said nothing.
Waited.
Finally, the girl whispered, "I don't know who I am."
"You don't have to," Elira said. "Not right away."
"I'm scared."
"Me too."
The girl looked up. "You don't look scared."
Elira smiled. "I learned how to keep walking anyway."
They stayed together until morning.
When the sun rose, the forest bloomed.
And the girl, whose name was Sera, chose to walk with her.
Elira didn't mean to start something.
But the world had been waiting.
By the time she reached the Hills of Quay, twelve others had joined, young, old, winged, cloaked, shy, loud.
None of them perfect.
But all of them burning.
Not with power.
With hope.
People began calling them the Second Circle.
Elira told them not to.
"We're not a Circle," she said. "We're just people who help."
But still, the name stuck.
Not because of what they did—
—but because of how they were.
They listened.
They stayed.
They remembered.
One night, a letter arrived on the wind.
Solin's handwriting.
Three lines.
"Ardain glows brighter since you left.
Your name is a melody in every new flame.
Come home when you're ready, but don't forget to keep going."
Elira smiled.
Folded the letter.
And placed it in her journal.
Sera tugged her sleeve. "Are we stopping?"
"No," Elira said. "We're just catching our breath."
Far away, in a city rebuilt by kindness and ash, the crown sat untouched.
A reminder.
And sometimes, when the wind blew right, the flame above it flickered with laughter.
Not because it was haunted.
But because somewhere, Elira was still burning.
And embers don't sleep.