Ash fell like rain.
Above the shattered skyline of Ember Rift, storm clouds pulsed with lightning as though the heavens themselves trembled. Elira stood alone on the cathedral's crumbling rooftop, wind tearing through her flame-colored hair. The city stretched below—dark, burning in places, alive in others. Every corner whispered the ghosts of her past.
She didn't flinch.
Her gauntlet burned quietly on her right arm, molten veins pulsing across the steel like an extension of her will. It had once felt heavy. Now it was part of her.
Behind her, Kael appeared, his blade strapped across his back, shoulders hunched in exhaustion. "The people are ready. They're scared, but ready."
"They should be," Elira murmured. "We're about to burn down what's left of their world."
Kael studied her. "You don't sound like someone who believes in victory."
Elira turned her gaze to the rising plumes of smoke. "I stopped believing in victory the day my mother screamed my name from inside a burning house."
Silence.
Then Kael reached into his coat and handed her a weathered locket. "We found it in the vault. It's yours."
Elira opened it.
A photo. Her as a child, between her mother and father. She blinked once. Twice. Then closed it and tucked it into her belt.
"This city took everything from me," she said. "Now I'll take everything from it."
And as the bell tower tolled midnight, Elira leapt from the rooftop—into war.