The city of Serwyn had no walls. No soldiers. Only windmills and olive trees, and the slow of rhythm of days unbothered by the world's war.
It was dawn when the sky turned red.
Lyra, a young herbalist barely sixteen, stood at the well when the air thickened, heavy and hot. Birds fell silent. The water turned warm in the bucket. The sun, half-risen, vanished behind a plume of smoke.
Then came the fire.
Not natural flame—this moved with will. A great serpent of molten light slithered from the horizon, eating trees, stone, and sky. It did not spread. It chose.
Screams rose. Buildings fell. Windmills burst into spirals of embers.
At the center of it all, he walked: a man cloaked in black flame, his eyes glowing not with anger, but purpose. He did not shout. He did not rage. He only moved forward, hand outstretched, and the fire obeyed.
Lyra saw him—Aran, or someone who wore his shape. But this was no hero.
She ran, heart pounding, clutching the small pouch of her father's herbs like a lifeline. The flame chased not her, but her hope. As if joy itself was the enemy.
High above, on a rocky ridge, one of the Sable Winds watched the destruction unfold, expression unreadable beneath her helm. She activated a storm-sigil, sending the image to Aethra.
Back in the floating city, Aran watched the projection. His face went still. Silent.
Vaerin cursed under his breath. "Is that…?"
Elira put a hand to her mouth. "That's Serwyn. It's gone."
The Oracle stepped into the hall. "He's calling to you."
Aran didn't speak. He only turned, walked to the armory, and lifted the Oathbrand—his father's flame-bound blade.
Elira followed. "Where are you going?"
He looked at her, eyes hard and quiet.
"To show him mercy still burns."