---

The capital stank of roses and rot.

Fresh blossoms spilled from golden vases in every corridor of Solaria’s White Palace, perfumed and perfect—masking the scent of something long decayed.

Queen Althea Duskmore stood on her balcony as dawn bled pink across the city. Her silk gown whispered around her ankles like a ghost.

Beneath her, Solaria shimmered. Market bells rang. Priests lit pyres in the Temple of Ash. The people sang her name from the lower wards.

Their queen.

Their savior from treason.

Their spotless empress.

She hated the song.

Behind her mask of grace, Althea’s jaw ached from smiling. Her hands trembled beneath lace cuffs. And her dreams—gods, her dreams—were filled with fire.

Seraphina’s fire.

Every night she heard it: her sister’s screams, echoing between stone walls. Every night she woke choking on smoke that wasn’t there.

“She’s dead,” Althea whispered aloud, as if saying it could make it real.

“She has to be.”

---

In the shadows beyond the chamber, a figure stirred.

Lord Magnus Vale, head of the High Circle, stepped into view. A tall man with silver-blond hair and a face carved from marble, he bowed once, his cloak fluttering like raven wings.

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly. “The rebellion at Ironcross has been silenced. The last of the nobles loyal to your father have been... persuaded.”

Althea turned. “How many executed?”

“Eighteen.”

“And how many silenced without trial?”

“Thirty-nine.”

Her stomach turned, but she nodded.

“It’s for the empire,” she said.

Magnus inclined his head, offering no judgment. He never did. That was the most dangerous thing about him—he didn’t need to believe in righteousness. Only order.

“And the southern coast?” she asked.

Magnus’s lips curled faintly. “There are whispers… of something stirring in the border towns. A woman traveling under the name Ember. Skilled with a blade. Silent. Dangerous.”

Althea’s blood went cold.

The name meant nothing—yet everything.

“Find her,” she said quietly. “And if it’s who I think…”

She didn’t finish.

She didn’t need to.

---

Fellridge

Meanwhile, Seraphina—Ember now—stood in a narrow alley behind the Rusted Pike tavern, watching a drunken noble choke on his own ego.

Kael had said: Pick your marks carefully. They speak freely when they think you’re beneath them.

And so she had. She’d stolen a waitress’s apron and let the lecherous Lord Darian spill secrets as he groped her arm and bragged of bribes, soldiers moved under moonlight, and caravans heading to the capital carrying more than just goods.

When he passed out, she slipped his ring—a family crest—and a silver coin engraved with a sunburst into her pocket.

Later, Kael examined both.

“A Black Guard token,” he said. “Only elite units carry these.”

“What are they transporting?” she mouthed.

He frowned. “Something important enough to move without records. Weapons, relics… or prisoners.”

Seraphina tapped the ring against the table thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Kael asked.

Her answer was silence—but her eyes had already begun planning.

---

That night, Kael led her to an old contact—a tinker named Maevin, who lived above a forge and spoke in riddles. The man squinted at her through layers of smoke and coal dust.

“She’s got old blood,” he said, voice cracking. “Like fire under skin. Burnin’ hot.”

Kael stiffened. “She’s no mage.”

“No,” Maevin agreed. “Older than mages. She smells like the Ashborn.”

Kael went still.

Seraphina tilted her head.

“Ah,” Maevin muttered. “She don’t know.”

“Know what?” Kael snapped.

The old man puffed his pipe. “About the Ashborn. The ones born with the ember’s gift. Not just magic. Fire in their bones. Some say they’re descended from the First Flame. Cursed and blessed.”

Kael’s expression turned grim.

“You think she’s one?”

“I know it,” Maevin said. “You’re walking with a storm, boy. Best hope she don’t turn on you.”

Seraphina’s fingers curled.

Inside, the fire pulsed—softly. Not threatening, but listening.

Alive.

---

They returned to the inn as thunder cracked in the distance.

Kael was quiet, and Seraphina didn’t push. She had questions. Hundreds. But they would wait.

Instead, she examined the map on their table again. This time, her focus shifted to a lesser-known outpost—Duskwatch, a forgotten military tower between Fellridge and Solaria.

“I’ve seen that name,” Kael said. “They use it to move things quietly. Off the grid.”

Seraphina pointed. Then pointed to herself.

“You want to go there?” he asked.

She nodded once.

He leaned back in his chair. “That’s not vengeance. That’s suicide.”

But she just stared at him until he looked away first.

He exhaled. “Fine. But we’ll need gear. Supplies. And—”

Bang.

The tavern door burst open.

A woman stumbled in, bleeding from the side, eyes wide with terror.

“They—they’re here,” she gasped. “Black Guard. Searching every inn. Looking for a woman in black—calls herself Ember.”

Seraphina and Kael locked eyes.

It was time to move.

---

They vanished into the cliffs before dawn.

The path to Duskwatch was perilous, winding through crags and ravines filled with bandits and worse. But Seraphina didn’t hesitate. The name Ashborn echoed in her mind, twining with memories of her father’s voice.

“You were born of fire, my daughter. Never forget what you are.”

She was beginning to understand.

---

In the capital, Althea stood before her sister’s old portrait—long since removed from the throne room and buried in the vaults.

Seraphina’s painted eyes still burned, even through dust.

“She should’ve died,” Althea whispered.

Magnus stood beside her, hands clasped. “And if she didn’t?”

“Then I’ll finish it myself.”

---