The moon hung low over the shattered towers of Kirevale, casting silver shadows over bloodied streets. Fires had died down, but tension burned hotter than ever. The city now belonged to the rebellion—but at what cost?
Inside the old council hall, turned rebel headquarters, Elira faced a table full of weary leaders. Maps, letters, and intercepted messages lay scattered across the surface like the wreckage of war.
Garran pointed at the latest parchment. "The Crown's army moves. Scouts report a column marching from the capital—two days out, maybe less."
Auren frowned. "They'll crush us if we stay. Kirevale can't take another siege."
Elira didn't speak for a long moment. She stared at the flame guttering in the iron lantern beside her, the warmth pulsing faintly in her palm like a second heart.
> "We don't hold this city," she said finally. "The people do. And it's time they choose whether to keep it."
She stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the square, where a crowd had gathered. Her voice rang clear through the cold air.
> "The Crown marches to silence us. But we are not ghosts. We are fire and blood and truth. They call us traitors—yet we are the ones who stayed when they abandoned you."
Murmurs of agreement swept the square.
> "I won't force you to fight. But I will fight—for your homes, your voices, your freedom. Will you stand with me?"
A slow roar built—low, unsure at first, then rising in a wave of fists and cries.
> "For Elira! For the Flameborn!"
> "For the kingdom!"
And somewhere in the back, Auren watched her not as a prince, but as a man who'd bet his life on a spark—and saw it become wildfire.
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