The vault dimmed behind us as we returned to the surface.
We walked in silence—me last.
I could still feel the ash beneath my boots, even on stone. Still hear the Echo's words in my mind.
"You are her echo, as I am mine."
Outside, Emberthorn felt colder. Or maybe it was me.
The towers loomed. The bells tolled for third bell. Students hurried between halls, robes fluttering, books levitating beside them. Life moved on as if the world below didn't exist.
As if the vault never whispered.
As if there wasn't a throne buried in ash and grief.
In the old archives, we gathered again. Obsidian Hall.
The Circle sat in a tight formation around the black map table. Dorian, silent. Riven tapping her boot against a chair leg. Elina leaning over old texts like they might bleed secrets.
Asher lit a slow-burning candle.
Then said the words we all knew had to come:
"We have to take the Ember Crown."
The Crown wasn't a thing anymore—not a physical circlet. Not since the old reign ended. It had been shattered, scattered, and hidden in flame-locked vaults.
Only Vaerin kept the memory of it alive, in the last remnant of the throne's echo.
But now that I remembered...
I knew where the pieces were.
"They aren't just objects," I said, placing my hands flat on the map. "They're memories. Anchors. Things tied to the Flamebearers who came before."
Sira nodded. "Artifacts."
"No," I said softly. "Graves."
Three sites.
The Ashpine Crater – where the first Emberborn girl burned herself to seal a gate.
The Hollowheart Mirror – buried in the chapel ruins, said to show your true fire.
And the Stormspire – once a watchtower, now struck by lightning each year on the same night.
Each held a piece of the Ember Crown.
Each would test us.
"We'll split up," I said, voice shaking just slightly. "Two to each site. And I go to the Crater."
"No way," Riven said instantly. "You're not walking into that alone."
"I'm not," I said. "You're coming with me."
She blinked. Then smirked. "Damn right."
We left Emberthorn before dawn.
No fanfare. No goodbyes.
Just seven of us, cloaked in silence and fire.
The first wind of winter met us at the gates.
And in my chest, the ember pulsed again—quiet, certain.
The throne may have been broken.
But the Crown still burned.
Journal Entry — Elira of Hollowhearth
The past isn't just something I carry now. It's something I walk beside.
I don't know what kind of Flamebearer she was.
But I know the one I want to become.
And it begins with gathering what the fire left behind.