The valley was alive with murmurs. The Ashbound gathered in ranks—scarred men and women, survivors of smoke and fire, their eyes fixed on the crown blazing above Elira's chest. Torches flickered against the dawn, casting long shadows across the ridge.
Elira stood before them, her wrist mark glowing, the crown pulsing as if listening. For a moment, she felt the weight of every memory—the whispers, the visions, the doubt. Then she raised her hand, fire sparking at her fingertips, and the murmurs fell silent.
"You have suffered," she began, her voice carrying across the ridge. "You have lost homes, families, brothers and sisters to Marlic's shadow. You have fought alone, waiting for the fire to return. Today, it burns again."
The Ashbound bowed their heads, the word Flamebearer rising in unison. Elira's chest tightened, but she pressed on.
"The crown whispers doubt. It shows betrayal, weakness, fear. But I tell you this: fire does not belong to shadow. It belongs to us. To those who resist. To those who fight."
Her mark flared, flames spilling outward, lighting the torches brighter. Faces glowed in the firelight, eyes shining with resolve.
"We will march before Marlic gathers his strength. We will strike first. Strike hard. And we will not fall to whispers. We will burn through them."
Kael stepped forward, blade drawn, his voice steady. "The Ashbound stand ready. We fight with you."
Elira raised the crown high, its blaze cutting through the smoke. "Then let the war begin. Not as survivors. As flamebearers."
The valley erupted in a roar—torches lifted, blades raised, voices united. The Ashbound were no longer scattered. They were an army. And Elira was their fire.