Lilitha_Ntlebi

In a world where mirrors whisper prophecy and fire remembers everything, two souls must choose between power and peace—before the last crown reignites.

The ancient mirrors—once shattered to save the world—have begun to awaken.

Talen, a reluctant heir with a mysterious past, and Lira, a fierce flame-binder with no kingdom to serve, are drawn into a quest to recover the seven mirrors of power. Each mirror reveals not only magic, but devastating truths—about the world's forgotten history, and about themselves.

As storms ignite, fortresses burn, and visions of the past twist into possible futures, Talen and Lira must confront the cost of memory and the seduction of destiny. With every shard they reclaim, the Crownfire stirs—an ancient force that doesn’t seek a ruler, but a vessel.

But what if the only way to save the world… is to refuse to lead it?

In the gripping fourth installment of Crown of Cinders, battles are no longer just fought with swords or flame—but with the truth, with grief, and with the power to walk away.

The fire never sleeps.
But perhaps, it can finally rest.

Crown of Cinders

Chapter Forty-Two: Blood in the Stone

They reached the mountains by dusk.

Not snow-covered peaks, but ragged spines of black stone, each like a blade risen from the earth. Stormlight danced across their ridges, casting long shadows that felt too deliberate, too alive.

Lira paused beneath a rock arch carved by wind and time. "This place… it's wrong."

Talen nodded. "This is where the Sixth Mirror sleeps?"

"No," she said. "This is where it waits."

The ruined palace was built into the cliffs themselves, hidden by centuries of fallen rock and earth. Its towers had long collapsed, but its foundations remained—massive, sunken stone halls echoing with silence.

At its heart was the Hall of Cracks—named not for the damage, but for the lines.

Lines marked in blood.

They entered through a broken arch.

Ancient banners hung like skin, torn and faded, and the wind blew through the hollow halls like it had forgotten how to carry joy.

"No one," Lira whispered. "Not truly."

They descended into the underchambers.

There was no firelight here, no torches.

Only the soft blue shimmer from the fifth shard, and a dull pulse ahead.

Stone gave way to black glass. Walls smoothed. The ground warmed.

And a man standing beside it.

He wore no armor. No mask. Just robes of white and gray—simple, travel-worn, stained with dust and memory.

The sharp jaw. The scar beneath his eye. The eyes that mirrored his own.

Lira stepped forward, hand out. "That's not—"

"I wondered how long it would take," he said gently. "The mirrors have been calling. And now you're here."

Talen's knees weakened. "You're dead."

"I was," the man replied. "But memory is not bound by death. You know that now."

The Sixth Mirror rested behind him.

A perfect black oval that swallowed light.

The Mirror of Grief.

Lira circled wide, one hand near her blade. "If you're truly his father, then tell us—why guard the mirror?"

The man looked at her—eyes weary, sad. "Because grief is not a thing to unleash freely. You must come through it. Choose it. Or it consumes you."

Images flashed across its surface.

Talen and his father at the Ember Gate. Laughing. Then screaming. Then silence.

Lira standing alone on her knees beside a fallen Talen, screaming into a burning field.

"This mirror shows what we've already lost," he whispered.

The man nodded. "And asks if you would lose it again."

But he placed his hand on the glass.

And the world collapsed.

He stood in a house made of cinder and memory.

"Would you trade all you've gained to have her back?"

In the real world, Lira held him, shaking.

He gasped—shard clattering from his hand.

But on the stone floor, a new shard had appeared.

Talen picked it up, hands trembling.

"I know," she said softly. "I heard you."

"But you didn't," Lira said. "That's what matters."

From the last place left.