The sanctuary pulsed with strange energy that evening. Winds, though gentle, stirred with the weight of unspoken things. Birds that once chirped at dusk were silent. The trees leaned closer to the stone heart of the refuge as though listening.
Aria sat alone in the Temple of the First Flame.
She had come here after training with Rowan and Elara. Her limbs ached from sparring, but her magic surged—raw, defiant, and near-uncontainable. The runes etched into the obsidian floor lit with her footsteps, and when she'd brushed her hand across the old altar, the Flameborn crown—dormant and reverent—had begun to shimmer.
Now, it sat before her on the pedestal, glowing faintly like a sleeping sun.
It was no longer just a relic of power.
It was a pulse. A voice. A gate.
"Why are you stirring again?" she whispered, reaching a tentative hand forward.
The crown flared.
Pain lanced through her chest—not physical, but something deeper. Her breath hitched. Her heartbeat slowed.
