The night was restless. Elira lay awake, the crown hovering faintly above her chest, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The fire in her wrist burned hotter than usual, each pulse carrying a whisper.
Then the world shifted.
The camp dissolved into smoke, torches snuffed out, and the canyon stretched into shadow. Elira stood alone, the crown blazing, but the light could not pierce the darkness.
From the smoke, Marlic appeared—his ember eyes burning, his army behind him, endless and faceless. The Smokebound marched in silence, their weapons forged from shadow itself.
The crown pulsed violently, forcing her to see more. She saw the Ashbound camp engulfed in smoke, torches collapsing, warriors falling. She saw Kael fighting desperately, his blade cutting through shadow, but the whispers clawed at him, dragging him down.
And then she saw herself—standing at the center, fire blazing, but the crown burning too bright, consuming her. Her own flames turned inward, threatening to devour her from within.
Marlic's voice echoed through the vision:
"You cannot save them. Fire burns out. Shadow endures."
Elira gasped, clutching her wrist. The vision shattered, the camp returning around her. Torches flickered, Kael slept nearby, unaware. But the crown still pulsed, heavy, insistent.
She rose, breath sharp. "He's coming," she whispered. "And he will strike tonight."