They left at dawn.
No horns. No banners.
Just wind.
And eyes that had seen too much to fear shadows anymore.
The path to the Flame Crucible was no road — it was a graveyard.
Villages blackened into charcoal skeletons.
Rivers boiling with ash.
The sky stained a copper red, like a wound refusing to heal.
"When a house burns and the trees dance, the spirits are watching."
They were being watched.
Elara rode beside Caelina in her hybrid form, her fur singed by the hot winds.
"How far now?"
"Two ridges," Zela said, riding ahead. "Then we see the Crucible's smoke."
Tavian remained near the rear, his rebel exiles flanking him — once Pureborn, now outcasts with haunted eyes and too-steady hands.
No one spoke to him.
Not even Caelina.
That night, they made camp in the Crater of Knives — a circular hollow of rocks, cracked from ancient lightning strikes.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No insects.
No birds.
Only the wind — humming like a warning between broken stones.
Zela set up magical wards around the perimeter. Elara sharpened her moonfangs, pacing like a caged beast. Tavian stayed near the fire, sketching the layout of the Crucible on a strip of flaybark.
Caelina watched them all.
She did not rest.
She could not rest.
Because she felt it.
Something was off.
Just before midnight, a scream tore the silence.
A guard — throat slit.
The wardlines had not been breached.
Which meant… the killer was already inside the camp.
Panic stirred. Swords unsheathed. Accusations flew.
Zela's hawk screamed overhead.
Then Elara caught the scent — burnt pine, salt, and blood.
They followed it through the camp.
And found a girl.
No more than thirteen.
Curled beneath a supply cart.
Trembling.
Eyes glowing faintly.
Miren's eyes.
"Don't kill her," Caelina commanded.
Tavian stepped forward. "She's a seer-child. One of the Veiled Flames. I remember their training. She's not here to spy—she's here to bleed."
The girl looked up. Smiled.
And whispered:
"She's already inside you."
Caelina's breath caught.
Zela aimed her dagger. "What does that mean?"
The girl dropped dead before she could answer.
Her veins had turned to glass.
Silence crushed the camp.
Then a single voice spoke from the shadows:
"It means your queen dreams of fire.
And the fire listens."
Every wolf turned, snarling.
But no one was there.
Only ashes in the wind.
That night, Caelina sat alone at the ridge's edge.
Tavian joined her, silent.
"She's inside my head," Caelina finally said.
"It's not her," Tavian replied. "It's the Crucible."
"What is it, really?"
Tavian looked out at the horizon, where smoke formed shapes in the distance — towers, moving like illusions.
"It was a meteor site. Ages ago. Before the bloodlines. Before the gods. Something fell there that burned for seven years. Myra found it. Built a forge on it. But Miren… she's not building. She's resurrecting."
"Resurrecting what?"
Tavian didn't answer.
But Caelina saw it in his eyes.
Fear. Real fear.
At dawn, they crested the ridge.
And saw the Flame Crucible.
It wasn't a city.
It was a breathing furnace.
Black towers coiled upward like thorns.
Smoke rose in pillars, shaped like wolves.
At its center was a molten heart, pulsing with unnatural life.
And atop the highest spire…
Miren.
Crowned in flame.
Arms outstretched.
Eyes closed.
Mouth moving in silent chant.
The earth beneath their feet trembled.
The sky flickered like it was being rewritten.
Zela whispered, "She's summoning something."
Tavian nodded.
"She's not raising an army.
She's waking a god."
Caelina closed her eyes.
Then opened them.
Hard. Clear. Unshaken.
She turned to her wolves. Her allies. Her family.
"Then we do not delay.
We do not wait.
We break her before the god draws breath."
She raised her salt-moon blade.
And the Hollow howled.
Not in fear.
But in fury.