The Echo of Emberlight

Shadows Beneath the Flame

Lyra awoke with a start, heart hammering in her chest, the ember in her ribs pulsing with unease. The chamber they’d been given inside Emberhold was spartan but clean—stone walls, a narrow cot, a dim brazier flickering faintly in the corner. Night had fallen hard outside, the city’s usual golden glow muted beneath a sky bruised with thunder.

She rose, careful not to wake Caelin, who slept soundly under a blanket, her ember steadier now, no longer flickering with fear. Lyra walked to the window slit and stared out. The rift above the Hollow Vale shimmered faintly in the distance, a gash of shifting red and violet light that bled into the clouds. It was growing.

Behind her, the door creaked.

Kalen stepped in, his cloak damp from rain. "You couldn’t sleep either."

She shook her head. "The ember’s restless. Like it knows something’s wrong."

He handed her a small parcel—bread and dried fruit. "We won’t be getting council answers until morning. Might as well eat."

She took the offering but didn’t sit. Her gaze lingered on the city walls. "This place isn’t ready. The people aren’t ready."

"No," Kalen agreed, his voice low. "But there are others who know more than they let on. The council doesn’t trust each other. I can smell it."

Lyra turned. "What do you mean?"

He looked at her, then at Caelin, and finally back to the door. "I spoke to a contact of mine. An archivist. Quiet sort, keeps to the catacombs. She said someone’s been accessing sealed records. Records on ancient flame rituals, pre-Emberhold. Forbidden rites."

Lyra frowned. "Why would anyone dig that deep now? Unless..."

"Unless they think the answer to the rift isn’t to seal it, but to use it," he finished grimly.

A knock interrupted them.

Before either could answer, the door opened and a figure slipped inside—a woman in dark crimson robes, a hood drawn low. Her presence filled the room like smoke.

"Lyra of Thornefield," she said smoothly. "You are being watched by too many eyes. If you want truth, come below."

Kalen moved instantly, hand to his blade. "Who are you?"

"A friend," the woman said. "Or perhaps just a shadow that remembers the light. I am called Mira. Once Flamebound. Now... simply aware."

Lyra’s ember flared slightly. The woman carried no visible weapon, but there was power about her—quiet, deep, old.

"What’s below?" Lyra asked.

Mira turned toward the brazier and, with a flick of her fingers, snuffed it completely. In its place, a shimmer of flame spiraled into the shape of a sigil—three intersecting rings, one broken.

"The old flame never died," Mira whispered. "It was buried. Hidden by those who feared it. But it speaks again. The rift woke more than Hollowborn. It woke them—the Emberless."

Kalen’s face darkened. "That’s a myth."

"No," Mira said, eyes glowing faintly now. "It was a silence. But silence breaks. Come with me. See the truth for yourself."

Lyra looked down at Caelin, who slept unaware of the firestorm gathering. Then at Kalen, who gave her a single, slow nod.

"We go together," she said firmly.

Mira smiled. "Then follow. The shadows beneath the flame are calling."

Together, they slipped from the chamber and into the night, down winding stairs that led beneath Emberhold—where secrets older than the city waited to rise.