The fires in Gezana had changed color.
They no longer burned blue with royal command, nor crimson with blood and vengeance. Now, they burned orange—wild, desperate, alive. The fire of the people.
Smoke coiled from the rooftops of noble estates. Golden banners were torn down and trampled in the streets. City guards abandoned their posts, shedding armor like a second skin. Rebellion no longer whispered through alleys—it marched in daylight.
From the high edge of a rooftop, Aaron watched in silence.
At his side stood Ashen, the boy's too-large cloak fluttering in the rising heat. His pale silver eyes were locked onto the chaos below.
"They came from Takoba," a voice said behind them.
Aaron turned slightly to see Kain emerge from the shadows, his face grim.
"The beggars, the burned, the forgotten. They call themselves the Ember-Faithful."
Aaron frowned, gaze still on the uprising. "What do they want?"
"Justice. Revenge. Maybe both."
Ashen tugged gently on Aaron's sleeve.
"They're not led by nobles," he said quietly.
Aaron crouched beside him, voice soft. "Then who leads them?"
Ashen blinked once. "Someone like me."
---
Later that night, Ashen sat with Aaron beside the ruined reflecting pool, where no fire burned—only the still silver light of the moon.
Aaron broke a piece of bread and offered it. Ashen refused.
"I wasn't born in Gezana," the boy said suddenly, his voice hollow. "I was brought here."
Aaron said nothing, only listened.
"I had a brother. Or maybe… a mirror. A boy who remembered things I didn't. He screamed in his sleep. Spoke in blue."
Aaron's breath caught. "Was he like me?"
Ashen looked up at him, eyes unreadable. "No. He was stronger. They erased his name from the records."
He glanced toward the fires burning in the city beyond.
"The Ember-Faithful… they follow his memory."
A pause.
"They believe you are his shadow. Not his equal. Not his heir. His… echo."
---
Aaron stood and began to pace, his boots crunching against shattered tiles.
"So what am I to them?" he asked, frustration mounting. "A symbol?"
Ashen nodded. "A mistake that survived."
For a moment, blue fire curled around Aaron's fingers, flickered—and vanished.
"You knew this," he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
Ashen's voice was barely audible. "Because your fire doesn't burn when you're angry. It burns when you start to doubt who you are."
---
Elsewhere, in the heart of the rebellion, a woman in tattered red rags stood before a crowd of broken, furious souls. Her voice rang out like a blade:
"The cursed prince still breathes," she cried. "But he has yet to burn the throne. What is a fire that hesitates? Smoke."
The crowd roared in unison:
"Smoke cannot rule!"
Behind her, hidden in the shadows, a voice whispered coldly:
"We either ignite the Flamebound… or we snuff him out ourselves."
---
Back by the pool, Aaron stared into the dark surface.
There was no flame now. No reflection. Only weight.
"If I am an echo," he said at last, voice sharp with resolve,
"then I'll find the voice I came from… and silence it."
Ashen closed his eyes, almost in mourning.
"Then you'll have to kill the one they worship."