Word traveled faster than wings in the magical world—especially when those words involved Mortain, the fallen storm god, swearing off divinity and forming a pact with a witch, a shadow-born, and a sarcastic cloud.
By the time the newly minted alliance reached the Emberfen Wastes, whispers had already spread: The storm walks again, and it walks beside a flame.
The Council of Cinders awaited them at the edge of the cracked glass lake, where the ground smoked and the air shimmered with residual fire magic. Cloaked figures circled the ring of obsidian pillars, each bearing the mark of a fire-bound bloodline. It was a place Rose had only read about in forbidden books—where fire spirits once bargained for freedom and old kings burned away their memories for power.
Now, it was where political decorum came to be threatened.
As they approached, the cloaked figures turned. The one at the center, draped in crimson scales and smoke, stepped forward.
"Rose of the Bramble Line," he intoned. "Stormbreaker. Ember-Touched. Why have you come?"
Rose tried not to visibly wince at the titles. "To ask for alliance. And offer warning."
Mortain remained two paces behind her, silent and unreadable. He had wrapped his magic in mortal cloth for now, though the heat still bent around him like metal near lightning.
The council shifted.
Another figure spoke, this one older, her voice like snapping twigs. "And why would we aid a disgraced god and a witch whose flames bend unnatural?"
"Because the gods are not finished," Mortain said, his voice low and quiet, but it rolled through the lake like thunder in still water. "And this time, they are not simply watching."
Nimbus hovered above Rose's shoulder, crackling nervously. "Can confirm. Several ominous dreams, at least one prophetic pigeon, and a map that bled on its own."
Basil added, "And they'll start with the people closest to us. Which means you."
The air grew tighter, thicker with tension. One of the younger councilors drew a dagger of molten stone, testing Rose's resolve. "So you come not only with warnings—but threats?"
Rose stepped forward. Her hair smoldered in the sun. "No. I come with fire."
She raised a hand, and the Bramble Flame curled upward, spiraling like a serpent around her arm. It burned bright, but it did not consume. "I'm not here to bow. I'm here to build. And I'd rather not burn the bridge to do it—but I will if you try to silence us."
The flame reflected in the council's obsidian eyes.
Then the lead councilor smiled.
"Finally," he said, "a witch worth setting the world alight for."
A torch was lit.
The pact was considered.
And the cinders began to whisper.