Chapter 3: Embers at the Gate - The March to Emberhold
536 Words
The road to Emberhold wound through the valley like an old scar—weathered, jagged, and unforgiving. Each step away from the Crestline felt like a descent from clarity back into a world tangled in shadows and doubt.
Lyra walked at the head of their small band. The girl—whose name they’d finally learned was Caelin—rested in a sling across her back, sleeping more often than waking, her ember flickering low but steady. Kalen trailed behind, ever-watchful, a hunter’s presence. He said little, but Lyra felt the weight in his silences: worry, readiness, resolve.
The wind shifted as they marched. Warm at first—then cool, tinged with the scent of metal and magic. As the sun rose higher, silhouettes of city walls began to form in the hazy distance.
Emberhold.
It loomed against the horizon like a fortress half-buried in the bones of the earth. Towering spires spiraled up from crumbling walls, their golden caps catching the light. Smoke drifted from iron chimneys. The city had not fallen, not yet, but Lyra sensed the strain beneath its stone skin.
As they neared the outer fields, they passed scattered signs of abandoned life: scorched carts, broken plows, charred skeletons of once-prosperous farms. Nothing stirred. No birds. No livestock. Only the wind.
They reached a checkpoint by mid-afternoon.
Two guards in singed armor blocked the path, their halberds crossed. One wore the mark of the Emberguard; the other, a newer sigil Lyra didn’t recognize—a stylized flame with three eyes.
"Halt," the first guard barked. "State your names and intent."
Kalen stepped forward, his voice low but firm. "We come from the Crestline. The Hollow Vale is stirring. We bring warning... and proof."
The guard eyed Caelin warily. "A child? What sort of proof—"
Lyra stepped up, unclasping the neck of her cloak. She let the ember in her chest rise, just enough to glow through her tunic. The air around her shimmered faintly.
The guards recoiled.
"She carries a living ember," the second said, voice hushed. "She could be..."
"One of the lost ones," the first murmured.
Lyra held their gaze. "I’m not lost. Not anymore. But if you don’t let us in, you will be. That rift above the Vale? It’s only getting worse. We don’t have time for suspicion."
The guards exchanged a look. Then, reluctantly, they stepped aside.
"Go," the first said. "But the High Council won’t be so easily swayed. And there are those within Emberhold who fear what you are."
Lyra nodded once. "They should."
They passed into the city.
Emberhold’s streets were narrower than she remembered, packed with wary eyes and whispered words. People leaned out from doorways, children peeked from windows, and everywhere—everywhere—there were soldiers. Too many for peace.
"They’re preparing for something," Kalen muttered. "War, maybe. Or collapse."
Lyra’s ember flared. Caelin stirred. The rift beyond the mountains pulsed in the back of her mind like a second heartbeat.
"Then we give them something to believe in," she said. "Or something to fear."
She looked up at the High Tower, rising from the city’s heart like a spear of light and fire.
Their real battle was just beginning.
- Writer
