Ashmark held through the storm of dreamfire, but the aftermath was no less unsettling. The survivors were whole—but changed. Their memories, though returned, had been touched. Some remembered old lovers as enemies. Others recalled scars they had never borne, losses they had never endured. The Flameborn’s strike had not taken lives. It had rewritten identity.
Kaelin stood in the Hollow’s central sanctum, her hand resting atop the golden shard pulsing in its cradle. Her gaze swept across the gathered leaders of Ashmark—faces drawn, eyes wary. No one spoke. Not yet.
Theron broke the silence.
“They know they can’t win by force. So now they’re turning our minds against us.”
Myrra nodded grimly. “We were unprepared. There’s no ward against memory. Not the kind shaped by fire.”
Kaelin clench
