The gates of Embermoor had opened from within, but the Crown's silence was short-lived.
Within hours, black-armored riders stormed the valley roads—messengers of fear, bearing the silver crest of the Royal Enforcers. They carried no words. Only weapons. And the Crown's answer to rebellion.
---
Elira stood in the great hall of Embermoor's old townhold, once a seat for governors loyal to the capital. Now it thrummed with rebel voices, planning, arguing, igniting new hope. But even hope needed strategy.
Auren paced near the map-strewn table. "They're sending the Hand."
Elira's eyes narrowed. "Serion Vayne."
He nodded grimly. "The Crown's blade. He razed the western ports in a single night."
Garran spat into the firepit. "If he reaches Embermoor, this city will burn."
> "Then we won't let him," Elira said, her voice steeled. "We meet him before he reaches the gates."
The decision was made before it could be debated. The rebels would not cower behind stone walls. They would stand on open ground.
---
By dusk, a contingent of Flameborn loyalists, Embermoor miners, and seasoned fighters stood ready at the river bend where the cliffs narrowed the path.
Mist clung low. Every leaf twitched like it knew war was coming.
Elira tightened the strap on her leather vambrace. She turned to Auren. "If I fall—"
> "You won't," he interrupted, drawing his blade. "But if you do, you rise. You're fire. Remember?"
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Then I'll burn beautifully."
---
The clash came like thunder meeting stone.
The Royal Enforcers charged with mechanical precision—obsidian blades, mirrored shields, emotionless masks. Serion Vayne rode at the center, a cold gleam in his eye and a spiked flail dripping with runes.
The rebels held the line.
Flames met steel. Screams were drowned by the roar of rushing river and snapping branches. The sky, once pale, turned copper with smoke.
Elira found herself face to face with Vayne. The Crown's Hand dismounted smoothly, cracking his neck as he approached.
> "The child of fire," he said, amused. "A myth made flesh. I expected taller."
> "I expected a monster," she said. "But you're just a man hiding behind orders."
Their battle carved the world in flame and shadow. His flail shattered stone, her fire scorched earth. Sparks lit the woods. The river hissed with heat.
Then—she faltered.
A blow knocked her back, breath stolen, ribs screaming. Vayne raised his weapon for the final strike.
And Auren was there—intercepting the blow, blade to flail, roaring with fury.
> "She's not fighting alone."
The tide shifted. Garran's hammer broke the Enforcers' flank. Embermoor's miners roared behind him.
Elira rose, fire wrapping her limbs like armor. Her eyes locked on Vayne. She whispered to the flame:
> "Not today."
One final burst—pure, golden, searing—threw Vayne across the field.
The Hand of the Crown fell.
---
Hours later, silence blanketed the battlefield. Smoke curled from the edges of scorched earth.
Elira stood over Vayne's unconscious form. She didn't kill him. Not yet. Let the Crown see its blade broken—and know who had done it.
The rebels didn't cheer. They stood in quiet awe.
Because this wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of war.