The scorched wasteland, dusk. The sun bleeds into the horizon, casting long shadows that writhe like living things. Kaito's tribe, _Ashira_, huddles in makeshift shelters, flames in the communal pit dwindling to nervous flickers.
Kaito kneels by the fire, _Kōen_ curled tight—a small, fox-like creature with ember eyes that seem to watch the shadows. The air's heavy with ash and unease.
A low, mournful sigh sweeps through the camp, like a knife sliding into a sheath. Kaito's gut twists. The flames dip, sparks swirling wildly.
Shadow Slaves glide in, faceless and soundless, their "clothes" fluttering like torn wings. They swoop toward the fire pit, extinguishing lanterns with a touch. Kaito draws his ember-infused blade, heart racing.
Kōen_ growls, sparks shooting from his fur. He surges, scales bursting forth as he expands into a lean, ember-winged dragon. Heat blazes, scorching the ground. Kaito swings onto his back, the leather saddle creaking.
"Pathblaze!"_ Kaito shouts. Fires erupt in a burning arc, forcing Slaves back—but one lunges, touching Elder Mara. She collapses, eyes glazing over as whispers seep in.
Mara's voice is a thread: _"The Weaver seeks the last ember. Ride, Kaito."_ Her hand falls, cold.
- Kaito's jaw clamps. The Shadow Weaver—a nightmare made real. _Kōen_ shrinks to fox form, nudging him, sparks urgent. "We go," he growls in Kaito's mind.
They burst into a Gallop Surge, flames roaring beneath _Kōen's_ wings. Shadows chase, closing in.
As they flee into twilight, a low hum threads through the air—a darkness tightening its grip. A voice, almost inaudible: "The flames must end." _Kōen_'s scales shiver, ember eyes fixed forward.