Chapter Nine: Flames of Rebellion
Emberhold had never known silence—until the chains beneath it broke.
The city, once thrumming with the ordered rhythm of bells, merchants, and soldiers, now stood on the edge of breathless unrest. Cracks split through cobbled streets. Fissures laced the outer walls like veins of fire. The palace loomed above all like a dying god, its stone towers casting long shadows in the orange dusk.
Nyra stood in the heart of it, her cloak darkened with soot, the Emberblade humming at her side. Kael flanked her, grim and watchful. Behind them, the newly awakened dragon slumbered deep below the surface, its flame now tethered to her soul.
But war didn't wait for fire to settle.
"They're gathering at the Watchtower gates," said Kael, scanning the rooftops. "Legion troops. Dozens. Maybe more."
Nyra turned toward the old market square, where flickers of rebel torches moved like fireflies through the streets. Men and women emerged from alleys, clutching handmade blades, old pitchforks, and stolen bows. Some wore armor, most wore none. But they carried the same look in their eyes.
The look of people who'd been stepped on for too long.
"You really think they'll follow me?" she asked quietly.
"They already are," Kael said. "You're the fire they thought died out."
Before she could reply, a horn echoed through the city. Deep. Jagged. Unnatural.
A warning.
Kael swore under his breath. "They're sending the Wingguard."
Nyra looked up—and her blood went cold.
Out of the dying light came the gryphons: monstrous creatures with razor wings and bone-white talons. Six of them, circling in formation above the palace, their riders cloaked in red and black. The Flame Legion's elite: soldiers forged in death magic, bonded to beasts twisted by the Grave Flame.
One dove.
The wind shrieked.
Nyra barely moved in time.
The gryphon struck the stones where she had stood a heartbeat earlier, claws shattering the road like glass. Its rider leapt from the saddle, landing in a crouch—a woman with glowing eyes, her armor pulsing with violet veins.
"You are flame," the woman hissed. "But I am what waits after."
Nyra raised the Emberblade.
The woman charged.
Their blades collided with a shriek of fire and shadow.
All around them, the square exploded into chaos.
The gryphons dove into the rebel ranks, scattering fighters like autumn leaves. Screams and the clash of steel filled the air. Arrows flew from hidden balconies. Fire rose from barrels of oil hurled from rooftops. The rebellion had no commander—but they had cause.
And it burned hotter than fear.
Kael moved like a ghost through the fray, dispatching soldiers with quiet, brutal precision. Nyra, however, faced something far worse.
The Grave Flame Rider fought with twin blades curved like serpent fangs. Her strikes were fluid, graceful—and poisonous. With every clash, Nyra felt not just the force of steel, but the pull of something darker, trying to drain her will, sap her breath.
"You think fire will save you?" the woman said between strikes. "It will eat you alive."
"No," Nyra growled. "It feeds me."
The Emberblade flared with white-hot light. She channeled her fury, her memory, her grief—everything she had lost—into that one swing.
Her blade shattered one of the Rider's sabers. The woman reeled back, snarling.
Nyra stepped in, fast as flame, and drove the hilt into the woman's chest.
She dropped to the stones, stunned.
But not dead.
Not yet.
The gryphon above screeched in rage, banking around for another pass.
"Kael!" Nyra shouted.
He was already moving. One of the rebels tossed him a spear. With terrifying calm, he hurled it upward—straight into the gryphon's wing.
The beast screamed, spiraling out of control before slamming into a rooftop in a burst of tile and fire.
The remaining gryphons circled once, then retreated toward the palace spires.
The square went still.
For a moment, all Nyra could hear was her own breathing.
Then came the roar.
Not of fear.
Not of terror.
But of hope.
The rebels raised their weapons, shouting her name—Nyra! Nyra! Flameborn!—until it echoed off the walls like thunder.
She looked around. At the faces smeared with ash, blood, and tears. At the city that had been stolen, broken, twisted into something cruel. At the people who would give their lives if she only asked.
She raised the Emberblade high.
"They tried to bury our fire," she said, voice strong, rising. "But we are cinders. And now we rise."
The cheers became deafening.
Kael moved beside her, voice low in her ear. "You lit the match. But the fire will spread fast from here."
Nyra nodded, eyes already turning toward the palace on the hill. "Then we carry it straight to the throne."
Inside the palace, Regent Kaelen watched the flames rise in the streets from his high tower. He turned away from the window, walking down a long hall lined with statues of past kings.
He stopped before the oldest one—its name long erased.
He placed a hand on its chest, whispered something in a forgotten tongue.
The stone cracked.
And behind it, a stairway descended into the dark.
Lord Varric appeared in the doorway behind him, pale and shaken. "My lord… the dragon. It's… free."
Kaelen's eyes gleamed like obsidian. "Let them burn the gates. Let them rattle the windows. But when they reach the throne…" He descended the first step.
"…they'll find the Grave Flame waiting."