The storm came with no clouds.
Just silence—followed by a thousand screams from the mouths of those who should not have spoken.
Arien jolted awake in her chambers, the Crownflame dimming for the first time since it bonded to her. She rushed outside, barefoot, to find Kael and Maev already in the square.
"It's happening again," Maev said, eyes distant. "The Veil is thinning."
In the ruins of the capital, a black spire rose overnight.
No one saw it grow.
No one claimed it.
But anyone who looked upon it heard whispers.
Some fell to their knees. Others clawed at their faces. A few burned from within.
And etched into the base, in flame that could not be extinguished, was a message:
> "The False Flame rises. Let her be judged."
Back in Pyraeth, Joss gathered reports from scattered rebels.
"It's spreading," he said. "Villages are going mad. Flamebearers are vanishing. And there's talk of a cult—something called The Emberless."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Fanatics?"
"Worse," Maev said grimly. "They worship what comes after fire. The dark between sparks. They call it… Ashir."
Arien stepped forward. "Then let them worship fear. I will give them something brighter."
But that night, when she touched the Emberblade, it burned her.
She wandered alone into the chamber beneath Pyraeth where the Flameheart once lived. There, surrounded by the echoes of old flamebearers, Arien knelt.
"Why now?" she whispered. "Why turn against me?"
The chamber answered—not with voice, but with vision.
She saw herself—not now, but older.
Crowned. Alone.
And at her feet, the world burning.
She awoke gasping, the blade cold.
Kael found her, held her. "We'll face it. Whatever it is."
But Arien's voice trembled.
"It's not just coming for us, Kael… it's coming through me."
Outside, across the se
a of broken kingdoms, the whispering god opened its eyes.
And smiled.