The Pyre Beckons

The morning sun cut through the stained glass windows of the temple, bathing Amina in golden light. Yet even as it warmed her skin, her thoughts remained shadowed.

The Pyre of Souls...

The Oracle's words echoed in her mind like the rumble of distant thunder. It was a place of legend, believed to be buried beneath the Shattered Cliffs—where time stood still, and fire remembered the names of the dead.

She didn't know how to find it.

But someone did.

"I know a man," Aric said, tightening the strap of his shoulder armor. "He used to be a Flame Keeper before the purge. If anyone can guide us to the Pyre, it's him."

Amina raised a brow. "And where is this man now?"

Aric's expression tightened. "Imprisoned in the Hollow Cells beneath Blackspire."

Amina stared at him. "You want us to break into Blackspire?"

"I don't want to. But we don't have a choice."

By nightfall, they stood before the fortress. Blackspire rose like a blade from the earth—its spires jagged, its walls laced with iron thorns. Few returned from its depths. Fewer still came back unchanged.

Amina disguised herself in a cloak of silver ash. Aric took out two forged passes. They slipped into the fortress as emissaries from the Southern Isles, carrying sealed scrolls and false authority.

The gatekeeper, a brute of a man with eyes like broken glass, inspected their documents. His gaze lingered on Amina a moment too long.

"You have fire in your eyes," he said gruffly.

She smiled coolly. "Only enough to keep warm."

He let them through.

Inside, Blackspire reeked of damp stone and centuries of pain. The cells were carved into the belly of the mountain, each one sealed with runes designed to suppress magic. Whispers clawed at the air—madmen talking to ghosts, traitors muttering names long forgotten.

They reached the deepest level, where the air grew thin and the torchlight struggled to live.

Cell 44.

There, behind enchanted iron, sat a gaunt man with hair like scorched snow and tattoos coiling down his neck. His eyes were shut, but as they neared, he opened them.

Burning amber.

Amina's breath hitched.

"You've come," the man said, as though he'd been expecting her.

"Name?" Aric asked.

The man stood slowly. "Ashar. Once Keeper of the Crimson Flame. Now… something else."

"We need your help," Amina said. "To find the Pyre of Souls."

Ashar chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "Many seek the Pyre. None return unchanged. What makes you different, girl?"

She lifted her palm. The phoenix mark pulsed.

Ashar's gaze sharpened. "You carry the Brand."

"I don't carry it," she replied. "I am it."

That made him pause.

"I'll take you," he said at last. "But you must understand: the path is not straight. The Pyre does not reveal itself to the unworthy."

"I'm ready," she said.

"No," Ashar whispered, his voice suddenly grave. "You are not."

Getting him out was another storm entirely.

As they climbed the stairwell, alarms suddenly blared through the fortress. Their forged identities had been discovered. Red-cloaked wardens flooded the corridors, blades drawn, fire spells arcing across the stone walls.

Ashar raised both hands. "I'll hold them. You run."

"No," Amina said, drawing her sword. "We go together."

He looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes.

"Then burn with me."

A crimson inferno exploded from Ashar's hands, melting iron and shattering stone. Amina flung herself through collapsing archways, guiding Aric and Ashar through chaos and ash.

They burst out through the mountain's lower exit, smoke trailing behind them like a flag of war.

They didn't stop running until the stars were high and the forest swallowed them whole.

That night, they camped beneath a canopy of whispering trees.

Ashar sat by the fire, gazing into the flames.

"You're not the first Phoenix-Bearer I've seen," he murmured. "But you may be the last."

Amina stared at him. "Why?"

"Because the Pyre doesn't test your power," he said. "It tests your soul. And it always takes something."

She glanced down at her mark.

"What did it take from you?"

Ashar didn't answer.

But in the flames, Amina saw a vision—a child's face, smiling. Then burning. Gone.

She turned away.

At the edge of the clearing, Aric stood watch. The forest rustled with uneasy whispers.

Suddenly, a sound—a snap. Too deliberate to be a beast.

He drew his blade. "Who's there?"

From the shadows emerged a woman clad in obsidian armor, her eyes glowing violet.

"The Ember Wraith sends his regards," she hissed, hurling a dagger of black flame.

Aric dodged—but not fast enough.

It sliced across his arm, searing into flesh with unnatural heat.

He fell.

The assassin stepped forward, her next blade poised for the kill.

But a wall of gold fire erupted between them.

Amina stood behind it—eyes glowing, mark blazing like a sun.

"You dare," she growled, "attack what is mine?"

The flames lunged.

The assassin vanished in smoke.

As dawn crept over the trees, Amina knelt by Aric's side, pressing cloth to his wound.

He winced, but smiled. "You called me yours."

She smirked. "You're injured. You must be hearing things."

Ashar approached. "We leave at dusk. The Pyre's location has changed, but I've felt its pull. We are close."

"How close?" Amina asked.

He gazed toward the horizon.

"Three days... if we survive the Whispering Vale."

"What's there?"

Ashar's face darkened.

"Everything you've buried."