Kael spoke to the fire like it was an old friend.
The language he used was not one Briar had ever heard—and yet, she understood every syllable. Words that hissed and sparked, each one alive with heat and fury.
Firetongue.
Only the Ascended had spoken it.
"You shouldn't know this," Kael said. "Even I barely remember the phrasing."
But Briar answered him fluently. She didn't think. The words flowed like breath.
Kael stepped back, stunned. "You're not just reborn. You were reforged."
Corva's expression was unreadable. "Your soul must have burned and been remade. That's the only way."
"But why?" Briar asked. "Why go through that?"
Kael looked away. "Because someone needed a weapon."
That night, Briar sat before the fire alone, watching the flames twist to match her breath. They danced with her. Obeyed her.
She whispered a question into the embers. One the fire didn't answer.
Who was I?
A flicker formed in the flame—her face, older, crueler, crowned in bone.
She closed her hand, and the fire died.