The smoke had cleared, but the silence remained.
Elira sat on the edge of the ruined outpost, her breath shallow, her wrist still glowing. The flame-mark had spread—thin lines of ember now traced up her forearm, pulsing faintly like veins of fire.
Kael crouched nearby, blade still in hand. He hadn't spoken since the clash. Not because he was angry. Because he was afraid.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said finally.
Elira didn't look at him. "I didn't choose it. It chose me."
Kael stood. "The crown doesn't just choose. It tests. And you let it burn through you."
She turned. "You think I failed?"
"I think you survived," he said. "Barely."
The ground beneath them trembled. A low hum echoed from the chamber below—the one the woman had refused to enter. Elira felt the pull again. Not from the crown. From something older.
She descended alone.
The chamber was dark, but the walls shimmered faintly. Symbols flickered—not in flame, but in memory. Scenes played out in light: a child reaching for the crown, a brother watching from the shadows, a betrayal sealed in smoke.
Elira stepped forward. The crown pulsed.
And then she saw it—an image etched in light. Marlic, before the smoke. His eyes wide. His hand reaching for Kael.
But Kael had turned away.
Elira gasped. The chamber went dark.
Above, Kael waited. And the fire began to whisper again.