Once, there was a room.
No bigger than a cupboard. No windows. No songs. Just a blanket, a bowl, and a girl.
She didn't cry.
Because crying had been forgotten in that place.
She had no name.
Only a number scratched on the wall: Seventeen.
In the Hall of Embers, long before Elira ever lit her first flame children were tested. Not for kindness. Not for courage. But for control.
Could they make the fire obey?
Seventeen couldn't.
Not because she wasn't strong—
—but because the fire loved her too much to listen.
It danced wild when she touched it. It lit dreams and whispered futures and wrapped around her fingers like it had waited just for her.
The teachers were afraid.
They called her flame spoiled. Called her useless.
She was not chosen for the Circle.
She was locked away.
Forgotten.
She remembered watching from cracks in stone walls as Elira's name was spoken aloud for the first time.
"She's nothing," one voice scoffed.
"She can't do magic," said another.
"She has no flame," they said.
But then Elira walked into the Circle anyway.
And people followed her.
And her fire-small, soft, good, lit the sky.
And Seventeen's heart broke.
Because she had waited all her life for someone to see her.
But Elira was the one they saw.
Now she stood in the Hollow Archive, taller, quieter, but not gentler.
"I was born with fire in my blood," she said. "And I watched the world fall in love with a girl who had none."
Elira didn't flinch.
She stepped forward.
"There are different kinds of flames."
Seventeen laughed. "Easy to say when yours has a name."
Elira looked at her lantern.
Then at the girl.
Then stepped forward again.
"My flame is made of others. Of people who stayed, and hoped, and burned together."
"You don't deserve it."
"Maybe not," Elira said. "But I carry it anyway."
The Hollow Archive trembled.
Its rooms folded into each other like scared wings.
And Seventeen, whose real name no one had ever spoken, trembled, too.
Because her flame wanted to join Elira's.
But her fear said no.
Her hurt said no.
She raised her lantern.
"I could take yours," she whispered.
Elira didn't raise hers.
She lowered it.
And said, "Then do it."
Silence.
Long, sharp, painful.
Seventeen stepped closer.
Lifted her lantern until it touched Elira's.
But nothing burned.
Instead…
The flames whispered.
To each other.
And laughed.
Seventeen stared.
"What…?"
"They recognize each other," Elira said softly. "They're from the same spark."
"But I— I was alone—"
Elira reached out.
Took the girl's hand.
"No one who holds fire is ever truly alone."
The Hollow Archive sighed.
And from the walls, forgotten names peeled free.
Including one etched in the ceiling:
Amaryn.
The girl whispered it.
"Is that… me?"
"Yes," the Archive replied, in a thousand tiny voices.
And Amaryn wept.
Not because she was weak.
But because someone finally said she belonged.
When they left the Archive, the world had changed.
Not by much.
Just enough.
The trees had returned to green.
The wind had learned a new tune.
And Amaryn walked beside Elira.
Not behind.
Beside.
Later, around the fire, Sera leaned over.
"She could have destroyed you."
Elira nodded. "She didn't."
Solin chuckled. "Of course she didn't. You're terrifying."
Elira laughed.
And the flame danced between them.
Still warm.
Still wild.
Still waiting.