Collapse and Revelation
850 Words
The impact of Flamewrought’s strike echoed like a war-drum across the valley.
A wave of force erupted from the Hollowking, hurling Lyra backward into the splintered ground. Rurik caught her just in time, his armor groaning under the strain. The throne cracked again—deep, foundational. One of the faceless titans buckled and fell.
But the Hollowking did not die.
Instead, his body peeled apart like ash caught in wind, revealing a core of emberstone corrupted by void.
"He’s not flesh," Caelin gasped from her vantage. "He’s a construct—a vessel. The real him is inside the ember corruption!"
Lyra stumbled to her feet, coughing blood. Her vision swam. But her flame—her ember—remained alive, anchored by the memories of all she fought for.
The sky above began to ripple. The Beacon itself flickered in the clouds, pulsing like a heartbeat. Below, the battle turned chaotic. Without the Hollowking’s direct command, the Hollowborne wavered—but they did not flee.
They gathered.
Not to fight—but to protect.
They were converging on the corrupted emberstone.
"They’re drawing their strength from him," Kalen shouted. "If we destroy it—if we purify it—we end them. All of them."
Caelin’s eyes glowed. She nodded. "Then we’ll need to reach the Source. Together."
The Reforged Flame surged forward again, now with one singular purpose: breach the last veil, sever the corruption at its root. The final charge began—Lyra, Caelin, Rurik, Kalen, and the last of the Emberguard burned toward the core.
The Hollowborne howled.
The throne collapsed.
And the corrupted emberstone pulsed once more, drawing all light into its heart.
The final reckoning had come.
---
4: Purging the Core
The corrupted emberstone towered before them, a monolith of churning voidlight and flickering ember remnants. Whispers radiated from it—voices of the fallen twisted into cries of surrender and self-loathing. Even the strongest among the Reforged Flame hesitated.
Lyra’s knees trembled. Her flame flickered. But Caelin stepped beside her, palm outstretched.
"Join with me," the lightseer said, voice unwavering. "We cannot destroy this alone—but together, we can unmake the lie."
Rurik and Kalen closed the formation. The Emberguard, bloodied and breathless, formed a circle. Ember threads laced between them, memories rising like sparks—laughter in forge halls, whispers of the old songs, promises made around fires now extinguished.
They began to chant.
Words older than stone. Older than flame.
The emberstone shrieked.
Dark tendrils lashed out. Three were struck—burned into shadow and blown away. Caelin’s light flared in agony, but she held the line, her eyes turning silver.
Lyra raised Flamewrought. Its blade pulsed with every beat of her heart. "I see you," she whispered, "and I do not fear you."
The blade met the stone.
A column of light erupted.
Every voice in the valley—friend, foe, forgotten—rose in a single cry. The Hollowborne collapsed into themselves, their shadows unraveling in the blaze. The corrupted emberstone cracked, bled light, and shattered.
The explosion consumed the sky.
And then, silence.
Pure and terrible.
The kind that only follows the end of something vast.
---
5: The Flame That Remains
The dawn that followed was not gentle.
It broke across the valley with crimson light and silence, like a wound that had finally ceased to bleed. Where once stood the Hollowking’s throne, there now lay a crater, glowing faintly with embers that no longer twisted with corruption.
Lyra stood at its edge.
Her armor was scorched, her blade dulled. The ember within her flickered—but it still burned.
Around her, the survivors emerged slowly. Caelin, pale but alive, leaning on a broken staff. Rurik, bleeding from his side, carried by Kalen. Fewer than two dozen Emberguard still stood, their eyes haunted but steady.
The Hollowborne were gone. Not slain—gone, unmade in the light of the Beacon’s echo.
Lyra lifted her gaze to the sky. The clouds parted to reveal the Beacon’s light, no longer flickering, but steady. It was as if the world itself took a breath.
She spoke softly, not to the crowd, but to the ember.
"It’s done."
A wind stirred ashes at her feet. The memories of the fallen whispered past her ears.
But the silence that followed was not empty.
It was peace.
---
Weeks later, the Ember Wall stood rebuilt—not of stone, but of light and oath. The survivors formed a new council, the Flamebound Concord, dedicated not to war, but to remembrance, healing, and watching the horizon.
The Beacon was no longer a symbol of warning.
It was a promise.
Lyra, now called the Last Flamebearer, did not seek a throne. She wandered, carrying Flamewrought and the stories of those who gave everything. Across villages and broken lands, she spread not fire—but hope.
Because the true echo of Emberlight was never the roar of battle.
It was the quiet courage of those who chose to k****e light in the dark.
And in every hearth, in every song, that flame endured.
---
The End.
- Writer
