The first time Lira Virelth heard the whisper, she was six.
She stood in the lantern archive beneath Haldenreach, staring into the sleeping ember her mother kept locked behind fourteen wards.
It said only one word:
Remember.
Now, fifteen years later, it whispered again.
But this time, it said:
Run.
The wind over the Virelth farm was sharp that morning, slicing through the olive groves with the clarity of something coming undone.
Kaelen stood by the tree where he'd buried his sword. His hands, scarred from decades of flame and steel, trembled without reason.
"Storm's too quiet," he muttered.
From the house, Lira stepped into the light — taller now, hair wind-lashed, green cloak marked with the seal of the Ember Lantern. She carried no weapon. Only a worn leather satchel slung across her chest.
"There's no storm, Father," she said.
Kaelen's eyes didn't leave the horizon.
"There will be."
Later that day, the letter arrived.
A crow bearing the seal of the Kindled Crown.
Serenya opened it in the Hall of Voices. Her heart froze at the name written inside:
"To the Last Flamekeeper, from the Ember Regent."
It was not a declaration of war.
It was an invitation.
We are your children too.
Come see what your mercy left behind.
The Second Vault opens with or without you.
Elsewhere, in the city of Veyra, a ship made entirely of burnt bone and gold-threaded cloth docked under false dusk.
From its hull emerged a child — no older than ten, with fire in his eyes and frost on his breath.
He was called Ashrel, and he spoke like an old god newly reborn.
He did not come in peace.
That night, Lira dreamed again.
She stood in the First Vault — only now it was cracked open like a broken lung.
From the heart of its shattered flame, a figure stepped forward.
Half-made. Burning. Weeping.
And it spoke in her own voice:
"I was born from memory.
You will be born from choice."
She woke with blood on her palms and embers on her breath.