Rain fell over Kirevale—not a storm, but a soft, steady drizzle that bathed the scorched streets in silver. It dulled the scent of ash, washing blood from stone, as if the heavens tried to cleanse what the kingdom had allowed to rot.
Inside the infirmary, Elira moved between cots. Rebels wounded in the first wave of Crown retaliation were resting. Some stirred, others barely breathed. She whispered quiet words to each, touching their foreheads gently—igniting a flicker of warmth, of healing.
"Not enough," she muttered. "Not fast enough."
Auren entered behind her. His hair was damp, his cloak dripping. "You've been at this since dawn."
> "They bleed for me," Elira said. "For the fire I started. I won't rest until they do."
Auren didn't argue. He simply stepped forward, handing her a fresh cloth. "Then let me help."
---
By midday, word arrived from the northern mountain pass.
A girl no older than twelve burst into the square, breathless and wild-eyed. "The people in Thornwatch… they fought back! The guards tried to seize a blacksmith's son. The village chased them out!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Garran stepped forward. "Did they say why?"
The girl nodded fiercely. "They said the Flameborn lives. They said she's coming."
Elira froze. Not because she feared it—but because hope had become wildfire.
---
In the tower chamber that night, Elira sat at the long window, watching torchlight ripple across the rebel camps like stars on land.
> "It's bigger than Kirevale now," Auren said behind her. "You've become the ember they pass from village to village."
> "They believe in something again," Elira murmured. "Even if I fall, they'll keep burning."
Auren placed his hand over hers. "Then don't fall. Lead them all the way."
> "To what?" she asked softly. "A new throne?"
> "To truth," he replied. "To fire that frees instead of consumes."
She leaned into him, eyes locked on the distant ridges where Crown banners fluttered. "Then tomorrow, we march to Embermoor."