Chapter 7 – Embermarked
699 Words
– The Vale of Sparks
The broken path to Kithra Vale twisted like a scar through the earth, overgrown with bramble and soot-colored vines. Birds did not sing here. The wind was dry, coppery, and carried the scent of scorched bark and stone. For three days Lyra walked in silence, Ira at her side, both of them watching the sky for signs—of weather, of wings, of smoke.
But it was the ground that warned her first.
A tremor, subtle but steady, rippled beneath their boots as they crested the ridge above the vale. From here, the remnants of Kithra lay sprawled like a shattered jewel—stone terraces cracked and sunken, great halls broken open to the elements, and a single tower, half-fallen, still casting a long shadow in the dusk.
But it wasn’t the ruins that drew her breath short.
It was the lights.
Flickers of flame. Dozens of them. Maybe more.
Not from torches or lanterns, but from people—bodies glowing with emberlight that sparked through skin and hair, uncontrolled and beautiful and dangerous. The air shimmered around them. Some stood in quiet circles, murmuring. Others wandered, eyes blank or lost in trance. One figure danced through the rubble, leaving bursts of fire in their footsteps.
Ira clutched her hand. “They’re like me.”
Lyra nodded. “Embermarked.”
He looked up at her, frowning. “Is that what I am?”
She hesitated. “It’s what they called us before the Accord. Before the flame was broken.”
They descended into the vale cautiously. As they approached the outer ruins, the nearest Embermarked noticed them. A young girl, barely ten, eyes glowing silver-orange, stepped into their path. She said nothing, but flame curled lazily around her fingertips.
“I’m Lyra,” she said calmly. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The girl tilted her head. “You carry the echo.”
Lyra blinked. “What did you say?”
Before the girl could answer, a roar echoed from deeper in the vale.
They turned just in time to see a burst of ember erupt from the broken fountain plaza. Flames shot skyward in a twisting column, and Lyra sprinted forward, Ira close behind.
At the center of the plaza stood a boy, maybe fifteen, arms outstretched, face contorted in pain or ecstasy. Fire surged from his chest in violent waves, uncontrolled, scorching the stones. Around him, others stood watching—not with fear, but reverence.
“He’s in a flare,” Lyra said under her breath. “If it doesn’t stop—”
She rushed into the circle, summoning her emberlight, wrapping it around her hands.
“Listen to me!” she shouted. “You have to pull it in—breathe with it, not through it!”
The boy didn’t hear her. His eyes were pure ember now, white-gold and blind. Flame cracked the stones beneath his feet.
“Ira, stay back!”
She stepped forward, heart racing, flame against flame. She reached him just as a final blast surged outward. Her own emberlight flared in answer, a radiant shield of memory and will. The wave hit her—but she held.
She wrapped him in her arms, not to restrain, but to anchor.
“Let it go,” she whispered. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
The fire dimmed.
Slowly, the boy collapsed. Lyra caught him, lowering him gently to the ground.
Around them, the circle of Embermarked began to kneel.
Not to worship.
To recognize.
They knew her flame.
They knew her name.
One stepped forward—an older girl with a mark burned into her palm. A flame sigil. She bowed her head.
“You’re the one they whispered about. The First Rekindled.”
Lyra rose slowly.
“I’m not the first,” she said. “Just the one still burning.”
The girl nodded. “We’ve been waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to show us what to do.”
Lyra glanced around at the faces—young, haunted, powerful. The ember inside her pulsed with a question, and she answered it with breath.
“Then let’s begin.”
- Writer
