The camp was collapsing under shadow. Torches sputtered, tents fell, and the Smokebound pressed harder, their ember eyes gleaming with hunger. Elira's fire lashed outward, but the smoke swallowed it, twisting her flames into ash.
The crown pulsed violently, burning against her chest. More, it whispered. Give more.
Elira staggered, visions flashing—Kael falling, the Ashbound consumed, her own fire turning inward. She clenched her wrist, refusing to yield. "If you want more," she hissed, "then burn with me."
The crown blazed brighter than ever, lifting above her head. Fire surged outward, not as a torrent but as a wave—pure, radiant flame that cut through smoke, igniting the night sky. The Smokebound shrieked, their forms unraveling, shadow dissolving into sparks.
For a heartbeat, the camp was bathed in light. The Ashbound froze, staring in awe. The Flamebearer had become more than fire—she was the crown itself, unbound.
But the blaze threatened to consume her. Her knees buckled, the mark on her wrist searing. The crown's power was too vast, too heavy.
Kael broke through the smoke, blade flashing. He caught her before she fell, his grip steady. "You're not alone," he said, voice fierce. "I'll hold the line. I'll hold you."
He turned, blade cutting through the Smokebound who surged toward her. Every strike was a shield, every step a vow. He fought not for survival, but for her—for the Flamebearer who had chosen him.
Elira forced herself upright, fire steadying in her palm. She met his gaze, the crown pulsing in harmony with her heartbeat. "Then we fight together," she whispered.
Kael nodded, steel gleaming. "Flame and steel. Until the end."
Together, they stood—the Flamebearer and her oathbound warrior—fire and blade burning against the tide.