The smoke of Kirevale still lingered in the morning air, curling through broken shutters and ash-streaked rooftops. Though the fires had died down, the city was anything but quiet.
Elira walked through the market square where children stared wide-eyed and old men bowed their heads. Some looked at her with reverence. Others, with fear.
She understood both.
> "You made them listen," Auren said softly beside her.
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes scanned the people as they rebuilt stalls and swept away cinders. Kirevale hadn't burned to punish—it had burned to awaken.
But not all hearts had awakened in her favor.
---
In the shadows of a ruined chapel, Garran met with a cloaked figure whose face never left the hood.
> "You were meant to disrupt the barracks. Not let her take the tower alone."
> "She needed to be seen," Garran said. "And they needed a symbol."
The figure leaned forward, voice like gravel. "Symbols are dangerous. Especially ones born of flame. Don't forget—we follow her for now. But if she turns…"
> "She won't," Garran interrupted. "I've seen her heart."
> "Then pray it stays hers."
---
That evening, Elira stood before the gathered rebels—new and old alike. Farmers, smiths, former soldiers. All eyes on her.
> "The Council will come," she said. "They'll send armies. Assassins. Lies dressed as truth. But we will not run."
> "We are not shadows anymore. We are fire."
Auren stood at her side, his presence a quiet promise.
> "Ilyras belongs to its people," Elira declared. "And I will not stop until the Crown kneels to that truth."
Cheers rose, low and fierce.
But from the trees beyond the camp, unseen eyes watched. And a raven took flight toward the capital.
---
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