EMBERS AND CROWN

The fire was dying again. It always died at night. I knelt before the altar, palms hovering over the faint glow that used to roar with holy light. The air smelled of soot and damp stone, and every breath felt like breathing through smoke. My fingers trembled as I whispered the old prayer, the one my mother taught me before the wars took her. “Ember, heart of the world, burn bright once more,” I murmured. The words hung in the air, unanswered. Only silence. Only ash. I should have been used to it by now—the flicker, the fade, the cruel stillness afterward. Yet every night it felt like losing someone all over again. The temple’s cracked pillars stood like ghosts around me, their carvings worn smooth by centuries. Outside, the wind howled through broken arches, carrying whispers of the world that had forgotten us. Then I heard it. A sound that didn’t belong here—a boot scuffing against stone. My heart jolted. No one came this deep into the Ember ruins. No one dared. “Who’s there?” I called, standing quickly. My voice echoed off the marble walls, sharp and uneven. No answer. Only the quiet drip of water from the cracked ceiling. I snatched the nearest torch, its dim light cutting through the darkness. The shadows danced wildly as I took a cautious step forward. That’s when I saw him. A tall figure emerged from the corridor—armor glinting faintly, a sword strapped to his back. His cloak was tattered from travel, his hair dark and damp with rain. But it was his eyes that caught me—storm-gray and unwavering. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, voice smooth but roughened by distance. “I was told a priestess still lived here. I almost didn’t believe it.” I tightened my grip on the torch. “You shouldn’t have.” “You’re Kaela Varyn, aren’t you?” I hesitated. “That depends on who’s asking.” He smiled faintly—an infuriating, half-smirk kind of smile. “Prince Corin Draelyn of Kareth. Or what’s left of it.” A prince. Of course. Only royalty had the audacity to walk into sacred ground uninvited. “You’ve come a long way for disappointment, Your Highness,” I said dryly. “The flame’s dying. There’s nothing left for you here.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” He strode past me, inspecting the altar as if it belonged to him. “So this is the famous Ember Flame,” he said, leaning forward. “Looks more like a campfire after a storm.” “Careful,” I warned, stepping closer. “Mocking the gods doesn’t usually end well.” He looked back over his shoulder, a hint of challenge in his tone. “And yet here I stand. Still unstruck by lightning.” Something about his confidence—no, his arrogance—made my skin prickle. He didn’t understand this place. He couldn’t. “I’m not here for faith,” he continued. “My kingdom is starving. The rivers have dried, crops fail, and the sky refuses rain. They say the world dies when the Ember dims. So—” He turned fully to face me. “Can you relight it?” I met his gaze and wished I could lie. “No one can. Not anymore.” He studied me quietly for a moment. “You don’t sound very priestly when you give up so easily.” My lips parted. “Excuse me?” He smirked again—just barely—and turned back toward the dying fire. “Maybe you’ve been praying too softly.” “You think shouting will fix centuries of decay?” “No,” he said, crossing his arms. “But it might be entertaining.” I blinked at him. “Do you ever stop talking?” “Not when I’m nervous.” His voice was teasing now. “And right now, I’m in a cursed ruin with a beautiful woman who looks like she wants to set me on fire.” The audacity. I exhaled, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re lucky the flame’s too weak for that.” He chuckled softly, and the sound startled me—it was the first real laugh I’d heard in months. For a fleeting second, the tension in the air shifted. Less hostility, more… something else. Then the torch in my hand sputtered out. “Perfect,” I muttered. Darkness closed around us, leaving only the faint pulse of the dying Ember at the altar. Corin’s silhouette moved closer. “Don’t move,” he said quietly. “Why—” Before I could finish, his hand brushed mine, steadying the torch as he relit it from a spark on his flint. The brief contact sent a spark through me instead—annoyingly, inconveniently warm. “There,” he said, stepping back. “Try not to burn me for that.” I swallowed hard. “No promises.” He grinned. “Fair enough.” The moment stretched—awkward, absurdly human amid the ashes of an ancient god. For the first time, I didn’t feel like the last priestess. I just felt… alive. Annoyed, but alive. Then the ground trembled. Both of us froze as dust rained from the ceiling. The altar flared—just once, blindingly bright—before dimming again. I gasped and dropped to my knees. “No, no, no—” “What happened?” Corin demanded, crouching beside me. “The flame—it’s reacting.” I pressed my palms to the stone surface. “It never does that. Something’s changed.” He stared at the faint embers, then at me. “Then maybe I didn’t come too late.” Before I could respond, the light swirled, faint and wild, forming symbols in the air. Ancient runes glowed between us—words neither of us had seen for centuries. Corin’s hand brushed against mine again, steadying me as the ground stilled. “What does it say?” I swallowed hard. “‘When the heir steps into the flame, the crown will burn, and the world will rise anew.’” He exhaled slowly. “Sounds like prophecy.” “Sounds like trouble,” I corrected. “Prophecies don’t end well for princes.” His mouth twitched, that infuriating almost-smile returning. “Good thing I’m not planning to die just yet.” I couldn’t help it—I rolled my eyes. “Arrogance suits you poorly, Your Highness.” “And yet you’re still talking to me,” he said, his tone teasing again. “Perhaps it suits me better than you think.” I stood, dusting ash from my hands. “If you came for miracles, you’re wasting your time.” He followed me to the doorway, voice softer now. “And if I came for hope?” That stopped me. I turned slightly, catching the faint reflection of firelight in his eyes. For all his smugness, there was weariness there—a kind of desperation he was trying to hide. I understood that too well. “Then you’re asking the wrong priestess,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Hope doesn’t live here anymore.” But when I looked back at the altar, the embers glowed faintly—stronger than before, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. And I couldn’t tell if that terrified me… or thrilled me.