Elira climbed back from the chamber, her pulse still echoing with the crown's memory. Kael was waiting, blade sheathed, eyes sharp. He studied her face, but she said nothing.
"You saw something," he said.
Elira shook her head. "Only smoke."
Kael frowned, but didn't press. He turned toward the horizon, where the trail of ash stretched like a scar. "Marlic's followers are moving east. We'll have to cut them off before they reach the river towns."
Elira followed, her wrist burning beneath her cloak. Every step she took beside Kael, the vision replayed: Marlic reaching for him, Kael turning away. Betrayal. Or sacrifice. She couldn't tell.
The silence between them grew heavier. Kael spoke of strategy, of routes and dangers, but Elira barely heard. The crown pulsed against her chest, whispering: Memory repeats. Fire consumes. Shadows betray.
She glanced at Kael. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed ahead. Loyal. Steady. But the crown's memory gnawed at her. Was he guiding her—or guarding her from a truth he didn't want her to know?
The smoke on the horizon thickened. The war was coming. And Elira carried not just the flame, but the doubt.