Kaelin stood in the Vale of Broken Chains, the ember-leaf cradled between her fingers, glowing faintly as dawn bled across the eastern rim. The air here was thick with memory—too many ghosts, too many beginnings. Once a sanctuary for the rejected, now a crucible for something ancient. Something new.
A war of flame, not fought yet with swords, but with belief.
She tucked the ember-leaf into the pouch at her side and turned back toward the makeshift camp. Scouts bustled around the perimeter, murmuring uneasily. Even those hardened by blood and fire felt it—something was coming. The wind itself carried whispers. Not from the trees, but from the flame.
Theron met her halfway down the slope, armor half-fastened, hair windblown, a line of tension visible at his jaw. He offered her a simple no
