The rebel camp stirred uneasily at dawn. Smoke hung in the sky—not from their fires, but something distant. Darker. Elira stood at the edge of the ruins, Daren beside her, watching as the wind carried the scent of burnt cedar.
"The Nightblades?" she asked.
Daren nodded grimly. "They move without sound. If we felt it, it means they're already near."
Elira's heart pounded. Her spine still burned faintly from the scroll's magic the night before. Every part of her screamed to run—but also to stand and fight.
"I need answers," she said. "No more riddles. What do the Nightblades want?"
Daren turned to her. "They want to silence you. The same way they silenced every Flameborn before you."
---
A scream echoed through the trees.
Elira ran toward it, rebels arming themselves in a panic. By the time she reached the perimeter, two scouts lay dead—necks cut clean, no sound before it happened.
A third scout stumbled forward, clutching his side. "They—they didn't come for us," he gasped. "They're after her. Only her."
"Elira," said Corren, appearing at her side, "you have to leave. Now."
"I'm not abandoning them," she snapped.
"You're not abandoning," Corren growled. "You're drawing the fire away."
---
They moved quickly—Daren, Elira, and two rebels who insisted on protecting her. They cut through the woods, winding along forgotten trails. But the deeper they went, the stranger the forest became.
The trees whispered. The ground glowed faintly beneath her steps.
"This place is old magic," Daren said, watching the way the flame under Elira's skin responded to the earth. "It remembers you."
Suddenly, a chill swept through them.
The Nightblades had found them.
--
They struck from the mist—shadowy figures with curved daggers and silence in their wake. One rebel fell instantly. Daren pulled Elira behind a rock as another blade sliced through the air.
"Use your fire!" he barked.
"I—can't control it!"
"You must!"
A dagger flew straight for her chest—and time slowed.
Elira felt the warmth rise in her hands—not burning, but focused. She threw up her palms—and a wall of fire exploded between her and the assassin. The Nightblade screamed, the cloak catching fire.
Elira collapsed to her knees, trembling.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You did what you had to," Daren said, dragging her to her feet. "Now move."
--
They escaped into a ravine and found cover by a shallow creek. Elira dipped her hand into the water—only to flinch as another vision struck her.
A palace bathed in fire. A girl in chains. Seraphine standing before a throne of gold, holding something black and sharp—an obsidian blade.
And then—Auren.
Bound. Bleeding. Whispering her name.
> "Elira…"
She gasped and pulled back, heart racing.
Daren gripped her shoulders. "What did you see?"
"They'll go after him," she whispered. "They'll use him against me."
--
Lady Seraphine stood over a map of rebel territories, blood dripping onto the parchment from her blade.
"The fire bends to her now," she muttered. "She is becoming what they feared."
The King frowned. "Then why hasn't she struck back?"
Seraphine's lips curled.
> "Because she still believes in mercy."