The Ember of Virelith had not spoken in three hundred years.
Nestled in the roots of Mount Kael, behind iron runes and bone-lock wards, it pulsed faintly—like the final heartbeat of a dying god. The old tongues claimed it was the soul-fire of Virelith, the Flame Mother who once lit the skies with her wings. But no one believed in sky dragons anymore.
No one except Talia of Lowmarch.
Talia was sixteen, an orphan of the Burnt War, raised in the ash-glutted ruins of Velmoor. Her life had been quiet until the night the stars went dark—all of them, snuffed out in a single blink. That same night, her bones glowed with warmth. The next morning, she dreamed of fire that remembered her name.