The trail of smoke was thin at first—just a whisper curling along the canyon floor. But Kael saw it before Elira did. He always did.
They moved in silence, the Ember Crown pulsing faintly beneath Elira's cloak. The flame-mark on her wrist itched, restless.
"You knew he'd do this," she said finally.
Kael didn't look at her. "I knew he'd break. I didn't know he'd take others with him."
They crested a ridge. Below, a ruined outpost smoldered—walls blackened, symbols scorched into the earth. No bodies. Just ash.
Elira turned to him. "Why weren't you chosen?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "Because I didn't burn."
She waited.
He exhaled. "Marlic was fire. Loud. Bright. I was shadow. I watched. I remembered. The crown didn't want memory. It wanted hunger."
Elira stepped closer. "But you still followed it."
"I followed him," Kael said. "Until he stopped being my brother."
A sound rose from the ruins—whispers, like wind through bone. The smoke thickened, coiling upward.
Kael drew his blade. "They're here."
Figures emerged—half-formed, ember-eyed, drifting like ghosts. The Smokebound.
Elira's mark flared. The crown pulsed.
Kael stepped in front of her. "Stay behind me."
She didn't.