The camp was silent except for the hiss of Elira's fire dying down. The air still reeked of scorched stone, and the rebels stood frozen, as if one wrong breath would ignite her again.
Elira's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. Her hands still burned faintly, the strange sigils pulsing like living wounds.
She looked around at the faces she had once led into battle. Faces that had once lifted her name like a banner. Now, their eyes were different—wide, wary, afraid.
> Afraid of me.
Her throat tightened.
"Step back," one soldier muttered to another. "That… thing is not the same as before."
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
Auren rose to his feet, fury in his eyes. "She is Flameborn. She has carried us this far. Do you think a shadow in the fire will change that?"
No one answered. But no one stepped forward either.
Elira forced herself to her feet, legs trembling. "I haven't lost myself," she said, her voice low, raw. "This fire—it's different, yes. But I'm still me. I will never turn it against you."
The silence that followed cut deeper than outright denial.
Auren reached her side, steadying her. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Let them doubt. I don't."
She turned her face toward him, and in his gaze she found the anchor she needed—the one person whose belief did not waver.
But outside the tent, whispers spread like smoke through the camp:
> "Her flame is cursed."
"She's no longer chosen. She's marked."
"What if she's no different from Mira?"
Elira clenched her fists, the sigils burning against her skin. She would prove them wrong. She had to.
From the shadows, a scout rushed in, panting, eyes wide. "Southwatch's outer wards have fallen," he gasped. "The Obsidian Order is moving—led by Mira herself."
The fire inside Elira flared, answering the name.
Mira was coming.
And this time, Elira would face her with a flame no one could predict—not even herself.