The world changed when Seris stepped from the Pyreal Wellspring.
No longer merely heir to a broken throne, she was now flame incarnate—each breath a vow, each heartbeat a pulse of ancient fire reborn.
But with power comes consequence.
And the world would not kneel quietly.
---
They began their return through the Hollowed Vale in silence. Even the wind dared not whisper near her. Where once ash had ruled, life now stirred—tiny, glowing roots unfurling from the cracked obsidian, drawn to her presence like moths to a sovereign flame.
Kaelen walked beside her, but his expression had changed. Not fear—never fear—but reverence. And something deeper.
Doubt.
"Are you still... you?" he asked quietly.
Seris stopped. The flame robe shimmered as she turned to face him, the fire in her eyes flickering softer.
"I remember everything. Every scar, every dream. But now I remember more." She touched her chest. "I carry the memory of fire itself. The Sovereign's fire, and something older. Wiser."
He nodded, swallowing. "Then we hold to that. To you."
But in the shadows behind them, something stirred.
---
News of her transformation spread like wildfire.
Ashra's flamewardens sent word through ancient ember lines—fiery sigils burned into the sky. Across Solvyris, mages wept as their flames changed color. Across the Dead Kingdoms, long-dormant volcanoes rumbled in awakening. The old magics were rising.
But they were not alone.
In the shattered throne-room of the Mirror Realm, the Mirror Queen prepared for war.
Her reflection had darkened.
Where once her image had shimmered like silk, now it bled shadows.
She stood before a massive obsidian mirror—its surface broken, jagged, flickering with scenes not of truth, but possibility. Corrupted prophecy.
"She thinks this is her age," the Queen said. "But I remember the last fire-born. I remember her screams when the crown melted in her hands."
Her generals—twisted shades born of reflection and doubt—bowed low.
"She's gathering allies," hissed one. "The Stormcloaks stir in the West. The Emberkin rise in the South."
"Then let them rise," the Queen whispered. "I'll burn their dreams with a lie."
She turned to the largest shard of the mirror and called into it.
"Send him."
---
Back at the Ember Range, Seris stood on the ridge overlooking Solvyris. The capital still burned from civil unrest, its towers dimmed by fear and old loyalties.
But the flame in her veins pulsed louder than politics.
"We march at first light," she told her gathered vanguard.
Kaelen looked over the host. "Ashra said the old oaths are awakening. Firewardens, Stormborn, even remnants of the Frostguard."
"They'll come," Seris said. "Not for me. For the world we can still save."
And still, she felt it.
A fracture in the Balance.
Something cold and ancient reaching toward her—through mirrors, through dreams.
The Queen wasn't waiting.
She was hunting.
---
That night, Seris dreamed of glass.
Shattered halls, endless reflections—each one showing a different Seris: a tyrant, a martyr, a child, a queen.
In the center of them all, the Mirror Queen stood with a sword of smoke.
"You wear the flame well," she said. "But fire forgets."
Seris didn't flinch. "And mirrors lie."
The Queen's smile was cruel. "Oh, child. I don't show lies. I show what you hide."
And behind her, the mirror shifted.
It showed Kaelen—not as he was, but in chains. Kneeling before a throne of ash.
Not Seris's throne.
Hers.
The Queen laughed. "Come find me, Sovereign. Let's see what truth your fire reveals."
---
Seris woke in a sweat.
Kaelen was already there, blade in hand.
"The outer wards are down," he said. "We're under attack."
Ashra burst into the tent behind him. "Shades. Mirrorborn. They've breached the wards. They're not just scouts. They're after you."
Outside, fire clashed with shadow.
But it was not the size of the force that terrified Seris.
It was the face leading them.
Tall, draped in tattered crimson, a mask of scorched silver hiding half his face—and on his hand, a gauntlet of mirrored glass, pulsing with stolen flame.
He moved like Kaelen.
Fought like Kaelen.
Seris felt the echo of him in her soul—and knew.
The Queen had sent a mirror of him.
Twisted. Hollow.
A dark reflection forged to break her.