The morning after the Ember Pact, Embermoor awoke not to fear, but to purpose.
Caravans rolled out of the city's north gate—laden not with merchants' goods, but supplies: grain, weapons, medical herbs. Blacksmiths who once forged shackles now sharpened blades. And in every hand that lifted a torch or packed a cart, there was the same quiet resolve.
Elira stood at the edge of the caravan camp, watching the final preparations. Her cloak was worn, her boots muddied—but on her brow, the circlet still gleamed.
> "They called it suicide a week ago," Garran muttered beside her, arms crossed. "Marching on Southwatch with barely a thousand fighters. Now? They call it strategy."
> "They're not wrong," Elira said. "We don't need to win every battle. Just enough to unmake their grip."
She turned to the gathered crowd—rebels, refugees, former guards turned against the Crown. Some bore scars. Others bore hope.
> "We move at dusk," she called. "Swift. Silent. Southwatch isn't just another city—it's the gateway to the royal roads. If we take it, we cut the Crown's reach in half."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Then nods. Then cheers.
---
Later, as the sun dipped low, Elira found Auren beside the horses, adjusting his armor with quiet precision. The prince looked nothing like the ghost she'd once met in the palace. Gone was the cold mask, replaced by dirt, sweat, and clarity.
> "You're riding with the scouts?" she asked.
> "Unless you'd rather I stay behind and polish swords."
She smirked, but her fingers lingered on the edge of his gauntlet.
> "Just… don't be reckless."
> "I have no reason to die," he said. "Not when you're still alive."
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, everything else faded—Southwatch, the Crown, the war waiting on the horizon.
Then Garran's horn sounded. The signal.
The rebellion was moving.
---
That night, under a sky stretched thin with stars, the caravan wound through the Ember Hills. The moon turned the fields silver, the wind low and cold.
Elira rode at the front, the Flameborn banner at her back—not a royal crest, but a black cloth embroidered with fire.
Behind her, firelights shimmered. Ahead, the shadow of Southwatch loomed—its high walls silhouetted against the dawn that was coming.
> "Let them lock their gates," she whispered. "Flame doesn't need doors to enter."
---
They made camp two miles from the city—silent, torches masked, scouts circling the perimeter. But it was too quiet.
When the first arrow flew, it struck one of their sentries in the throat. The second landed at Elira's feet—with a parchment wrapped around the shaft.
> "They knew we were coming," Garran hissed.
The camp erupted into chaos. Shadows emerged from the hills—Crown forces. An ambush.
Elira tore open the parchment. Three words, scrawled in rushed ink:
"You were warned."
> "No…" Auren growled, scanning the battlefield. "Someone told them. From inside."
Torches flared behind them. One of their captains—Jeren, a former city guard from Embermoor—was missing. His tent abandoned. His uniform gone.
> "Jeren sold us out," Garran snarled, blade drawn. "I trusted that bastard."
> "He knew our route, our timing…" Elira's voice was cold fire. "He led them to us."
---
Despite the ambush, the rebels fought back fiercely. By sunrise, they had repelled the attack—but not without cost. Lives were lost. Plans disrupted. And now Southwatch would be braced for their coming.
Elira stood on a ridge, blood on her sleeve, watching smoke rise from the field.
> "We move still," she said, voice unshaken. "But with eyes wide open now."
Auren came to her side, gaze grim.
> "The Crown plays dirty. So must we."
> "No," she replied. "We play honest. That's what makes us different. But we'll be ready for the knives behind us now."
She raised her eyes to the north. Southwatch waited—and beyond it, the capital.
And somewhere, Jeren ran with the Crown's gold in his pocket, unaware that the flame he thought he'd extinguished… had only begun to burn hotter.