Dawn in Emberfen was less a sunrise and more a steady glow from beneath the earth, as if the world itself were trying to hold in a breath of fire. The ground shimmered with heat mirages, and the scent of emberroot smoke drifted from cooking fires scattered around the camp.
Rose hadn't slept.
She sat near the edge of a cracked obsidian ridge, watching the horizon tremble. The air was still, the way it only gets when something big is thinking about happening.
Basil approached, dragging his feet and clutching a mug of something that steamed with sinister intent.
"You're up early," he grumbled, slumping beside her.
"I don't sleep well in peaceful places," Rose replied, arms wrapped around her knees.
"Don't worry," he said. "The end of the world will fix that soon."
She laughed softly. "Comforting."
A pause stretched between them.
"You know," Basil said carefully, "I've known you a while now, and I think this is the longest you've gone without blowing something up on purpose."
She smirked. "It's on the schedule. Right after breakfast."
Another pause, then: "You're scared."
Rose didn't answer right away.
"Yeah," she said eventually. "I am."
"Of the gods?"
"No. Of what comes after. If we win, I mean. What am I if there's no fire left to fight?"
"You're Rose," Basil said. "That's already more than most people ever get to be."
Rose gave him a crooked smile. "Thanks."
Just then, Nimbus zipped overhead, trailing little sparks in his wake. "Meeting time! Mortain wants everyone in the war tent. Something about battle logistics and how to make a spear out of sky!"
Rose stood, brushing ash from her coat. "Duty calls."
The war tent was fuller than usual. Not just Emberfen soldiers, but envoys from nearby strongholds: the Boneglass Archers, the Cindermarch Riders, even a delegation of moss witches from the Murkwilt Grove.
Mortain stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, storm tattoos glowing faintly beneath his skin.
"As of this morning," he said, "our scouts confirm movement from the north. The Hollow Choir is mobilizing."
A collective shudder rippled through the tent. The Hollow Choir wasn't just a godly force—it was a chorus of unmade things, creatures pulled from dream-voids and laced with divine ruin.
"They'll reach the Emberfen border within five days," Mortain continued. "Less if they tear through the mountain pass."
A moss witch raised her hand, vines curling from her sleeves. "And what do we offer them in return?"
Rose stepped forward.
"Resistance," she said. "And a promise: if they want to unmake us, they'll have to bleed for every step."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
Mortain glanced at her. "And you, Rose? What will you give them?"
She met his gaze evenly. "Everything they feared I'd become."
And in the silence that followed, it was clear: war was coming—but this time, the fire would speak first.