Chapter 23: The Ember Throne
The Emberheart pulsed steadily in the Hall of Flame Remembered, casting warm light on every flamebinder who passed. Its glow, pure and unrelenting, reached deeper than the walls of Hollowspire—it touched memory, and it stirred the ashes of old fires long buried.
But peace, as always, was brief.
Three days after its return, a flame scout arrived half-dead from the northern peaks. Her skin was blackened by wind-burn, her hands wrapped around a charred satchel. Inside was a scroll marked with the crest of House Caerthyn—one of the Hollow Crown's oldest surviving flame-kings.
Kael read it aloud.
"'The mountain burns with untrue flame. The Emberborn stir. And the throne awakens.'"
Lenara looked toward the rising peaks in the distance. "The Ember Throne," she said. "I thought it was lost."
"So did history," Sephira muttered.
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Their journey to the north took five days by wyrm-cart and two more on foot.
The Flamebound vanguard—led by Lenara, Kael, Sephira, Rilendar, and Elane—moved through the Blackflint Pass, a jagged chasm carved by ancient lava flows and warfire.
Along the trail, they found remnants: twisted sigils burned into stone, charred bones buried shallow, and symbols of the old flame god Yzarek etched in reverse.
"Someone's been here," Elane said. "Recently."
Selen crouched by a broken idol. "This wasn't worship. This was extraction."
---
On the seventh day, they reached it.
The Ember Throne stood atop a basalt cliff, carved into the side of a mountain shaped like a dragon's skull. Red lightning danced across the sky above it, arcing from peak to peak like veins of flame.
It wasn't just a throne—it was a fortress. A lost citadel built from the bones of flame-titans and the blackened stone of fallen kingdoms.
And at its heart, a single seat, carved from emberglass, still burned.
"The legends say only one who has been broken by fire can sit upon it," Sephira whispered. "Anyone else..."
Rilendar spat. "Burns from the inside."
"Then why are the Emberborn stirring now?" Kael asked.
"Because someone's already tried to claim it," Lenara answered.
---
They entered the citadel through a shattered portcullis, guarded only by silence and scorched statues.
Inside, they found what remained of a cult—half-melted armor, weapons fused to bone, a circle of soot where a ritual had gone terribly wrong.
At the far wall, a message burned into obsidian:
"He rises not by fire—but by ash."
"Who?" Elane asked.
Kael tensed. "The Hollow King is dead. We saw his mask melt. We saw the fire take him."
"Did we see his ashes?" Sephira asked quietly.
---
A sudden tremor shook the citadel.
Flames roared to life along the throne's walls, forming symbols not seen since the Pyre Wars. The floor cracked, and a chasm opened beneath the throne.
Lenara stumbled back, catching herself on Kael's shoulder. From the abyss rose a voice—not spoken, but carved into the soul.
"You carry the Mourning Fire. But it mourns for you."
Sephira's eyes widened. "It's not him. It's them. The throne itself. It's alive."
Then came the fire.
Black, twisted, wrong.
It surged up through the chasm, and with it rose a figure wrapped in flame-chains. Its face was hidden beneath a crown of nails and glass. It did not walk—it floated.
"The Emberheart was a key," the figure rasped. "You brought it home. You awakened us all."
Lenara stepped forward. "You are not the throne's master."
"I am the throne. I was forged in its fire, abandoned in its shadow. I am the Ash-Prince, son of a kingdom that forgot its name."
---
The battle was instant.
Flames collided midair—Lenara's Mourning Fire clashing against the ashfire of the throne. Kael shielded Sephira as she summoned wards. Rilendar leapt onto the side pillars, hurling shadow-cleaving knives.
Elane tried to strike the Prince's crown, but her blade shattered on contact.
"You cannot strike what was already broken," the Ash-Prince said, hurling her backward.
Lenara focused her flame—not as a weapon, but a memory. She called forth the fire of Jerek's pyre, of the village lost in Chapter 2, of every name carved into firebread.
And her flame became gold.
It cut through the ash.
The Ash-Prince screamed.
"Too many forget," she said. "But I don't. I won't."
---
The Ember Throne shook. Cracks raced through its structure.
The Ash-Prince began to disintegrate—but he laughed.
"You are no queen, Lenara. You are a spark, nothing more."
Lenara walked forward. "And sparks become wildfire."
With a final shout, she hurled her flame into the heart of the throne.
The citadel exploded in light.
---
When the world returned, they were standing on the mountainside. The Ember Throne was gone—reduced to glowing embers. The Ash-Prince was nowhere to be found.
But the Emberheart still glowed in Lenara's hand.
Kael placed his hand over hers.
"You stood against a kingdom's memory."
"No," she said. "I stood for it."
---
Back at Hollowspire, the Flamebound gathered once more.
A new hall was constructed—not from stone, but from memorywood, a living flame-reactive tree that responded to shared memory.
They called it The Hall of Emberroots.
And atop its central pillar, they placed the Emberheart—not as a weapon, but as a reminder:
Some thrones are not meant to be sat upon.
Some are meant to be burned.
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