The vault was too quiet.
Even the flames lining the stone corridor burned without sound—no crackle, no hiss, just still, silent fire. Ember didn't trust it.
She crouched low behind a pillar of obsidian, one hand on the hilt of her dagger, the other pressed to the stone floor. No vibrations. No footsteps. Just heat pulsing from the walls like a heartbeat.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Not the walls.
Her own.
Her heart was racing.
It should have been a simple job. Get in, grab the artifact, get out before the nightwatch changed. She'd done harder things. She'd lifted coin from nobles in the marketplace, scaled the city's forge towers, slipped through the cracks of Solara like smoke in wind.
But this wasn't a purse or trinket. This was the Crown of Cinders.
And it was calling her.
She crept forward, sliding past the glowing runes carved into the floor. One misstep and the entire citadel would know she was here. Magic like this wasn't made to ward off thieves—it was made to incinerate them.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
She didn't know when the dreams had started. Or why they always ended in fire. All she knew was that she'd seen the crown before—in a vision, buried in flame, on a throne of ash. It whispered to her in her sleep, promising answers.
Power.
Blood.
She turned the last corner and saw it.
There, on a pedestal of black stone, rested the crown.
It was nothing like the golden circlets the highborn wore at festivals. This thing was jagged, forged from cracked obsidian and fireglass, its edges glowing faintly with emberlight. Old. Ancient. Alive.
Ember took a step forward.
The air grew hotter with each breath. Not just heat—pressure. Like something unseen was watching her. Waiting.
"You better be worth it," she muttered, and reached out.
The moment her fingers brushed the crown, pain stabbed through her chest.
Not physical pain. Not entirely. It was… memory. A scream. A city in flames. A throne room drowned in blood. Her body staggered back, but her hand stayed glued to the metal.
"You have returned."
The voice wasn't hers.
It wasn't in the room.
It was inside her.
She gasped, dropping the crown—but it didn't fall. It hovered mid-air, spinning slowly, flames coiling around it like a serpent.
"You are flameborn," the voice said. "And flame remembers its queen."
"No—" Ember backed away, but her hands were glowing. Light pulsed under her skin, burning from her veins outward. She clenched her fists, trying to contain it, but the heat wouldn't stop.
The runes on the floor lit up.
Damn it.
The wards had triggered.
Sirens didn't blare. But she felt it—like the vault itself had taken a breath. She had seconds, maybe less, before guards stormed in.
So she did the only thing she could.
She grabbed the crown.
Flames surged outward in a ring, smashing the pedestal to rubble and blasting the door off its hinges. Ember ran, cloak smoking, boots skidding over stone as heat followed her like a living storm.
Guards appeared from the upper level—shouting, steel drawn.
"Stop her!"
"She has the relic!"
Arrows flew. One grazed her shoulder. She didn't stop. Couldn't. The heat built behind her eyes again, blurring her vision.
A torchbearer blocked the hallway.
"Drop the crown!" he yelled.
She raised her hand before she could think.
Fire exploded from her palm, catching the torchbearer square in the chest. He screamed, dropped, rolled. The flames didn't stop.
She stared at her own hand, horrified.
"I didn't mean to—"
But the fire inside her didn't care. It roared for freedom.
She burst through the outer doors, past the last guard, and into the night. The cold hit her like a slap—but the fire clung to her skin.
Solara's night sky burned red above. The city pulsed with torchlight and panic. She ducked into the alleyways, weaving through shadows and soot, until finally—mercifully—she collapsed behind a stack of ash-crates in the smuggler's quarter.
Her breath came in ragged bursts. Her hands were still smoking.
The crown lay beside her, pulsing faintly, like a living thing.
She should throw it into the sea.
She should bury it deep, walk away, never speak its name again.
But she couldn't.
Because the whispers were still there.
"The flame remembers you."
"The throne awaits."
Ember stared at her reflection in a shattered piece of glass. Her eyes, once dull brown, now glowed faintly gold. Not normal. Not human.
Not safe.
She clenched her jaw.
She wasn't a thief anymore.
Not just a girl hiding in the cracks of Solara.
She was fireborn.
And the kingdom would remember her name.