Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
The Cradle of Sparks and Raven Hollow, eight weeks after the gate closed
The Flame did not roar.
It whispered.
I stepped forward into the absolute center of the Cradle, boots scraping over glass-smooth stone, and reached out with both hands. The tiny living flame hovered just above the ground, no bigger than a candle, yet it held the weight of the world.
The world inhaled.
Fire curled around my fingers like silk—warm, curious, ancient. It did not burn. It tasted me, the way a wolf tastes the air before deciding whether to bite or bow.
“I accept the truth,” I whispered.
The Flame pulsed once—gentle, grateful, inevitable—and slipped inside me.
Light died.
Sound vanished.
For one suspended heartbeat the entire ravine, the Deadlands, the sky itself st
