The night after Frostvale burned, Serenya Flameborn walked among the wounded.
Her boots crunched softly on the snow, now mixed with soot and dried blood. Warriors lay on makeshift cots fashioned from broken doors and fur cloaks, their breaths shallow, their skin pale against the flickering torchlight. She moved from one to the next, adjusting bindings, whispering quiet reassurances. Firelight glimmered on her scarred hands, steady even as exhaustion weighed on her shoulders.
Serenya had been forged in flame long before she bore the name Flameborn. She still remembered the heat of the forges in her youth — the glow of iron drawn from stone, the hiss of quenching steel. Her father's voice, deep as the mountains, had taught her the rhythm of hammer and bellows. Strike with purpose. Fire consumes, but fire also protects. Remember that, child.
She remembered, too, the night the Hollow Crown came. Their soldiers descended like locusts, torches in hand, swords already wet with blood. The forge fires had turned into funeral pyres. Her mother's scream still haunted her dreams. When dawn came, nothing remained but ashes. From those ashes, she had taken her name. Flameborn.
Now, in Frostvale's ruins, she wondered whether Kaelen Duskbane understood fire as she did.
"Serenya," a young warrior whispered as she tightened the bandage on his arm. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. "We… we won, didn't we?"
Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before she nodded. "We drove them back. You are still breathing. That is victory enough."
The boy gave a weak smile and drifted into uneasy sleep. Serenya stood, pulling her cloak tighter. Her gaze lifted across the village square.
Kaelen was there, speaking quietly with Lira, his shadow coiling faintly around his boots even at rest. He looked every inch the champion the council wanted — tall, strong, carved by both loss and will. And yet there was something brittle about him, as though the weight of his restraint might snap at any moment.
Serenya respected him. More than she admitted aloud. Few could bear such a burden without breaking. Yet respect was not trust. Not yet.
Varik's words from earlier still rang in her ears: Better a monster than a corpse. She despised his arrogance, but she understood the truth buried within. The Hollow Crown did not wait. The Shroudbound did not pity. Fire consumed, whether one willed it or not.
She turned away from Kaelen and walked toward the forges. Even broken as they were, she sought their comfort. Within the half-collapsed smithy, embers still glowed faintly in the hearth. She knelt, coaxing them back to life with practiced hands, feeding small twigs until flame flickered once more.
The fire warmed her face, the scent of smoke filling her lungs. She closed her eyes and let memory and present blur together. Fire consumes. Fire protects.
Behind her, footsteps crunched in the snow. Varik's voice followed, rough and bitter. "Tending flames when the world drowns in shadow? Typical."
Serenya opened her eyes but did not turn. "Flame outlasts shadow, Varik. Even if only as smoke."
He snorted. "Pretty words. But words won't win wars. Kaelen's leash will choke us all. You saw it — the villagers dead, the homes burned. All because he refused to unleash what he carries."
Finally, Serenya turned. Varik's face was half-lit by fire, his scars stark in the glow. His eyes burned with a different kind of flame — not warmth, not protection, but hunger.
"You think letting the shard loose will save us?" she asked.
"I think fighting half-blind will kill us," he snapped. "You know the truth, Serenya. You've seen it. He holds back, and we pay the price."
Serenya studied him for a long moment. She knew his grief — his brother had fallen years ago in a Shroudbound ambush. His rage was carved from loss as surely as her name had been. And yet rage, unchecked, was as dangerous as shadow.
"Kaelen bears the shard," she said. "Not you. Not me. Him. Until it consumes him or breaks, the choice is his."
Varik stepped closer, his voice low. "And if his choice damns us?"
Serenya did not answer. The fire crackled between them, as if demanding silence.
Later, when the village had quieted and even the council had withdrawn to restless sleep, Serenya climbed to the edge of the plateau overlooking Frostvale. The night stretched cold and endless, stars sharp against the sky. The wind carried the faint scent of ash and pine.
Kaelen stood there already, his back to her, shadow curling faintly in the snow.
"You spar like a man afraid of his own blade," she said, her voice carrying in the stillness.
He turned slightly, surprise flickering in his eyes. "And you strike like a woman unafraid of anything."
Serenya approached, standing beside him. Below them, the village smoldered. "Fear is not weakness," she said quietly. "Fear teaches. Fire taught me that. It burned everything I had — and it gave me strength. You fear the shard, Kaelen. Maybe that is good. But fear alone will not win this war."
His shadow shifted uneasily. "If I stop fearing it, I'll give in."
"Then you must learn to wield both," Serenya replied. Her gaze remained fixed on the stars. "Flame and shadow. Fear and resolve. Fire consumes — but fire also protects. Do not forget that."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind howled softly between them, carrying with it the echoes of the dead. Serenya thought of the forge fires of her youth, of the ashes that had named her, of the flame she still carried.
She did not know if Kaelen could truly master the shard. She did not know if restraint would save them, or doom them. But she knew this: when the time came, she would stand at his side.
And if he faltered — if shadow claimed him — then her fire would be the blade that ended him.