🜂 After the Ash
For three days, the skies remained red.
Not from ruin.
From rebirth.
Where the Hollow Halo fell, a crater of molten light now glowed—its twisted remains slowly cooling, releasing not poison, but ash laced with raw ember traces. The earth, somehow, was healing. Feeding on it.
Jackie stood at the rim of the basin, cloak fluttering in the thermals. Beside her, the Emberbound council watched as dragonkin circled overhead—born from seeds, now flying with purpose.
Kael stepped forward, a scorched data-drive in hand.
"The last of the Ironseed schematics," he said. "Encrypted. We can destroy it."
Jackie took it, held it in her palm for a long moment.
Then tossed it into the emberflow.
"Let memory live," she said, "but not monsters."
---
🜂 The Flame Accord
On the fifth day, envoys arrived.
From the Frosted Holds.
From the Emerald Shardlands.
Even from old Warden states now leaderless and uncertain.
None came with weapons.
They came with questions.
Jackie met them in the ruined throne hall of Valecrown—now ringed with dragonbone growths and ember flora. She stood not behind a throne, but on level ground. Equal.
"We are not rebuilding the old empire," she said.
"We are writing a new accord. One where fire does not rule—it restores. Where dragons are not worshipped or feared, but welcomed."
Luci added, "And where seeds aren't owned. They're shared."
No one cheered.
They listened.
And agreed.
That night, the flame banners flew not as emblems of power.
But of peace.
---
🜂 The Crowning Ember
At dusk, Jackie climbed the Crownspire alone.
The Emberbound had prepared the rite—Jazira's circlet cleaned, reforged, and set atop a pyrestone pillar. But no one forced her to take it.
She stood before it, silent.
Then, slowly, she removed her blade. Her mother's. Her memories. Her fear.
She placed them all at the base of the pillar.
And lifted the circlet.
The crown hissed as it touched her brow—then melted slightly, reforming to fit her. The fire within didn't burn.
It belonged.
Below, the city roared.
> The Fireheir had become the Flamecrowned.
And not by war.
But by will.
---
🜂 Epilogue: The Last Emberseed
Far from Valecrown, across shattered coastlines and scorched valleys, a child sat beneath a dead tree.
She was alone.
Her village gone.
Her family forgotten.
And yet, in her hand, she held a glowing vial—left behind by a stranger in a hooded cloak, hours before the ashstorm came.
Inside it: a single spark.
The last Emberseed.
She turned it over in her palm, eyes wide.
Then, quietly, she buried it in the dirt.
The ground shimmered faintly.
And far above, in the night sky, a dragon soared through the stars.