The banners of the Crown stretched across the horizon like a tide of blood.
From atop the outer wall of Pyraeth, Kael watched dust rise in the distance. Thousands of soldiers. Siege towers. War machines powered by bound flamebearers.
The king was not coming to parley.
He was coming to erase.
Arien stood beside Kael, the Emberblade strapped across her back. "How long before they reach the gates?"
"Two days," he replied. "Maybe less."
Maev appeared, robes ash-stained. "We need allies. Magic. And a miracle."
Joss, polishing a dagger, grinned. "Good thing we've got me."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not a miracle."
"I'm rare. That's close enough."
The group divided.
Kael took Maev to the nearby forest sanctuaries, seeking help from the reclusive druids of the Flamewild.
Joss returned to the smuggler's roads, gathering rebels and thieves—those with old grudges and nothing to lose.
And Arien?
She descended alone beneath the city again… this time into the Cavern of Embers, a vault said to house the lost flames of Pyraeth's founders.
She walked for hours through tunnels lit only by the Emberblade.
At last, she reached a chamber carved with runes older than the Crown. In its center, suspended in crystal, floated a single spark—white-gold, flickering like a star.
A voice spoke, soft as wind:
> "You seek the Crownflame. Why?"
Arien stepped forward. "To end a legacy of fear."
> "And if it burns you?"
"I will rise again. Like every fire before me."
> "Then take it."
She reached forward—and the crystal shattered.
The flame entered her chest like a heartbeat.
She screamed.
Above, in the city, Kael returned—followed by druids cloaked in leaves and fire. Joss brought in exiles, sellswords, even an old skyship crew.
And when Arien emerged from the cavern, her eyes glowed like the sun.
"I have it," she said. "The Crownflame is mine."
Kael touched her face, awe-struck. "You're... not just a flamebearer anymore."
"No," she
whispered. "I am the flame."
The final war was no longer coming.
It had begun.