The Smokebound didn't charge. They drifted.
Elira stood at the edge of the ruined outpost, the Ember Crown pulsing against her chest. Kael's blade was drawn, but the smoke-creatures didn't flinch. They circled, whispering in voices that weren't theirs.
"Elira Morgan," one hissed. "Thief of fire. Pretender of flame."
Her mark flared. The whispers grew louder.
Kael stepped forward. "She carries the crown. You don't speak for it."
A figure emerged from the smoke—taller, more solid. Ember eyes. A voice like cracking wood. Ashra.
"You carry a spark," she said. "But you don't remember the burn."
Elira raised her hand. The flame-mark blazed. "Then show me."
Ashra lunged—not with a blade, but with smoke. It wrapped around Elira's arm, searing her skin with visions: a battlefield of flame, a crown shattered, Kael kneeling beside a dying brother.
Elira screamed. The crown flared.
Kael sliced through the smoke, dispersing Ashra's form. But she reformed, flickering.
"You are not ready," Ashra whispered. "The fire will consume you."
Elira staggered, then stood. Her mark burned brighter. The crown lifted above her head, spinning once in midair.
"I'm not here to be ready," she said. "I'm here to burn."
The Smokebound recoiled. The outpost trembled. And the fire answered.