"The only thing older than fire is the lie it tells: that it can be controlled."
Ashen's camp had grown into a caravan.Hundreds marched behind him now—some Flame-marked, others simply afraid. Every village they passed told tales of the Ember Knight who unmade a Scourge with white fire.The world had begun to split around his name.In the east, they feared him. In the west, they prepared to crown him.But the thrones of the old world were stirring.One of them wanted Ashen dead—not for power, but for revenge.
In the Obsidian Spire of Vaereth, Queen Maelira sat on a throne forged from the bones of her own kin. She had once ruled half the continent until the Flame Wars burned her army to ash.Now, hearing the Ember Knight's rise, she summoned her generals.
"If fire returns to this land, we will drown it in blood. No more kings of cinder. No more gods made of pain."She turned to her assassin.
"Bring me his heart."
Ashen's caravan reached the ruined city of Teraleth—once the jewel of the north, now a skeleton of towers swallowed by ash. Here, Lyra sensed something beneath the streets.
"There's a Vault here," she said.
"A memory sealed by the first Flamebearers."Riven groaned. "Another crypt? Why is it always crypts?"They entered anyway.
What they found was not treasure.It was truth.Inside the Vault were murals—ancient, glowing, alive.They depicted a boy with fire in his eyes. A girl whose skin bore runes.They looked like Ashen and Lyra.Lyra traced a line beneath the image. "This is older than Khareth. Older than the Gates."Ashen stepped back. "Are we... echoes?"The Vault responded.A voice echoed:
" Cycle 97. Candidates confirmed. Ember-Knight and Lock-Bearer aligned."
Lyra whispered, "We've done this before."Ashen clenched his fists. "Then this time, we break the cycle."
Back at the surface, the assassin had come.Maelira's blade—called Grief—was forged from soul-iron. It devoured flame.She struck Ashen in the chest before he could react.He dropped.Lyra screamed and the followers panicked.But Ashen did not die.The flame inside him turned inward, and for a brief second, he saw:A throne made of fire. A crown hovering over no head. A voice: Will you wear it?Ashen said nothing.The fire answered for him.He rose, flame pouring from every wound.The assassin vanished in white light.
Ashen did not speak for three days.When he finally did, he looked at Lyra and said:
"It's not about stopping the fire. It's about choosing who burns."He took a piece of the assassin's blade and melted it into a sigil.The first mark of the Cinderborn.
"A nation of fire-walkers, kingdom of ash.And he would sit upon its throne.Even if it killed him".
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