The wind roared through the gaps in the shattered stone of the ruined Flame Court, its voice wild and endless. It didn't whisper. It screamed.
Lira stood still beneath the weight of the grey sky, her cloak snapping around her as snowflakes twisted like ghostly ash in the air. They didn't fall gently—they danced, frenzied and defiant, swirling around her boots like spirits summoned by memory.
The once-mighty Flame Court lay broken and silent, but not at peace. The silence here felt thick, watchful. Alive. Beneath the settling frost came the deep groans of ice shifting in the bones of the ruin, and a quiet that pressed in like breath held too long.
This place remembered her—even if she didn't remember it.
It had only been two days since Kael arrived. Two days since Arion placed her deeper in the sanctum—not to hide her, but to give her space. The warded halls were carved from ancient stone, untouched by time or storms, and they held their own kind of quiet. Lira hadn't spoken much. She didn't need to. Her presence stirred something in the walls, in the runes, in the air itself. It responded to her like a heartbeat—faint but pulsing.
Still, belief was a fragile thing.
Not everyone trusted what she was. What she claimed to be. And today, someone was coming to question it.
The sound of hooves cut through the quiet. Distant at first—then louder. Thunder over ice.
Lira stepped from the archway into the open, wrapping her cloak tighter as the wind bit into her skin. Arion fell into step beside her, silent as ever.
"Company?" she asked.
"Lord Vaeren of Northwind Vale," he said. "Warden of the Icebound Orders."
"Ally or enemy?"
Arion's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Neither. Yet."
Twelve riders approached, each in armor of deep navy and silver, their banners marked by a crowned wolf, flapping like wings in the wind. At their front rode a tall man with a blade slung across his back and eyes that looked carved from frost—sharp, unreadable.
He dismounted without ceremony. Walked straight toward her.
"So," he said, voice low, calm, laced with weight. "This is the lost Flame."
Lira didn't flinch. "You came a long way just to stare."
He arched a brow. "I came to test the truth."
"You want proof."
"Names can be faked. So can magic."
She didn't wait for Arion's signal. She stepped forward and placed her hand on the scorched stone at her side.
The ground responded.
Runes surged to life around her hand, glowing a deep, golden crimson. Fire shimmered through the air, twisting in silent spirals around her. Her pendant flared bright, and the snow at her feet hissed into steam.
Vaeren didn't step back. But his gaze sharpened.
"It remembers you," he said quietly. "That doesn't make you queen."
"I'm not here to rule," Lira replied. "I'm here because I woke up, and the world wouldn't let me forget."
That earned a pause. A long one.
He turned and gestured. A soldier handed him a scroll. He cracked the seal and read aloud.
"The Order of Sovereigns calls for Trial by Flame. You will answer the Ember Court."
Arion's jaw tightened. "That law hasn't been invoked in three centuries."
Vaeren looked at Lira. "It does now. If she fails, the claim dies. If she passes—"
"Then we'll see," she finished for him.
That night, in the sanctum, she sat at the edge of the still pool, watching her reflection shift in the water. Kael sat nearby, oiling his blade. He hadn't spoken since the summons.
"You think I'll fail?" she asked.
He looked up. "No. But I think they want you to."
She let the silence stretch. The fire in the brazier crackled low. Her reflection flickered.
And then—she saw her.
Aelira. Her. Gold-eyed. Wrapped in flame. Sad. So, so sad.
The voice came again. Deeper now. Familiar.
They fear the fire because it reminds them they once bowed.
She didn't speak. She just nodded.
"Will you come with me?" she asked Kael.
He met her gaze. "To the end."
They left at dawn.
Four days through snowfields and silence. Through dead valleys and past fallen statues half-buried in frost. The sky stayed grey. The world cold. But Lira never once complained.
On the second night, they sheltered in an old wayhall. Arion told stories then—of the first Flameborn. Of fire that spoke. And gods that trembled.
"She didn't rise for glory," he said. "She rose because the world gave her no choice."
On the third day, firebirds circled overhead. Arion called it a sign.
On the fourth, they saw it: the Ember Fortress.
Carved into black obsidian, it rose from the cliffs like a jagged wound in the mountainside. No guards. No ceremony. Just a gate of molten steel that parted as they arrived.
Inside, runes flared awake with every step. Heat pulsed beneath their boots. The trial chamber was circular, lined in scorched stone. Three thrones waited at the far end, shrouded in veils of shadow. Judges.
Kael and Arion stayed behind as Lira stepped into the circle.
A judge raised their voice.
"You claim the Flame. Do you accept judgment?"
"Yes."
"Then face it."
Fire erupted.
Not pain. Not destruction.
Memory.
Aelira laughing. Aelira screaming. Aelira bleeding on battlefields. Faces she knew. Voices she loved. Every life she'd forgotten—played out in rings of flame.
And then—a voice.
Not hers. Not the judges'.
A god's.
She is not ready.
Lira's heart slammed against her ribs. The fire dimmed. The judges murmured. She saw Kael tense.
But then—another voice. Closer. Older. From within.
She was not made to be ready. She was made to burn.
The flames surged.
Lira stepped forward.
"Let them test me," she said, voice forged in steel. "Let them doubt me. I am not your weapon. I am not your queen. I am what survived."
And the circle lit gold.
The judges rose.
The trial had only just begun.
Far away, beyond mountain and mist, in the hollowed spires of the Old Temple, a bell rang for the first time in a century.
In the High Hall of the gods, cloaked figures gathered.
A name echoed across the stone.
"Aelira Thorne."
And somewhere in the dark, something old opened its eyes—and remembered fire.