Night had settled over the rebel camp like a cloak, silent and watchful. Elira sat alone beneath a weathered tree, the embers of the day's fire still glowing faintly behind her.
She hadn't slept. Her body ached from the Flame Trial, but it was her heart that bore the heavier weight.
She wasn't just hiding anymore.
She was becoming something else—something dangerous.
---
Corren approached her before dawn.
"We've intercepted word of a caravan," he said, unfurling a hand-drawn map. "Royal supply train. Headed north. It's guarded, but lightly. There are rumors of scrolls—sealed records from the old Flame archives."
Elira's breath caught. "Scrolls? From before the purge?"
He nodded. "If they exist, they may hold answers to your power. Or proof of what the Crown destroyed."
"I'll go," she said before he could ask.
He raised a brow. "You won't go alone."
---
They moved swiftly through the forest—Elira, Corren, and two other rebels: Myla, a fire-dancer with a grin too sharp to trust, and Fenric, silent and steady, whose eyes gleamed silver in the dark.
By midday, they reached a ridge overlooking the old stone road. Sure enough, a small caravan moved below—four wagons, two dozen guards, and a royal crest etched in gold.
Elira's pulse quickened. That symbol had once represented safety. Now it only meant chains.
--
They struck at dusk.
Smoke bombs rolled from the trees. The guards scattered, coughing. Myla leapt into the fray with twin blades gleaming. Fenric disarmed three before they could shout.
Elira stayed back, hands trembling, eyes on the last wagon—the one with iron locks and strange markings.
She reached for it.
Magic pulsed against her palm.
A seal.
She murmured the word she had seen in her vision.
> "Ignira."
The lock shattered. The door swung open—and inside, nestled in velvet, were scrolls glowing faintly with firelight.
She reached for the closest one—
> "Elira!"
She spun. A guard had recovered—his blade already falling.
Time slowed.
Her fingers flared gold. Fire surged from her hands, knocking him back in a blast of heat.
The man groaned—but didn't rise.
Elira stood frozen, smoke curling from her fingers.
---
Later, by the river, Corren joined her as she stared into the water.
"You saved yourself," he said.
"I didn't want to kill him," she whispered.
"You didn't." He paused. "But one day, you might have to. The Crown won't show mercy. Neither can we."
She nodded slowly. But a part of her still trembled.
Inside her pack, the scroll pulsed with warmth—like a heartbeat.
--
In the palace, Auren studied the torn reports brought back from the road.
Caravan destroyed. Scrolls missing. Survivors spoke of a girl with glowing eyes.
Elira.
Lady Seraphine entered. "It seems your orphan witch grows bold."
"She's Flameborn," Auren said. "She's not the first. But she might be the last."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "Then we must end her before the fire spreads."
Auren looked down at the map.
His heart already knew the route she'd taken.
His next move was clear.
> He had to find her—before the Crown did.