The sanctuary walls hummed with faint light as Ember stood over the pedestal where the second shard had rested. Though the shard now lived within her, its presence lingered in the chamber—like the echo of a song long silenced.
She sat in the center of the room, closed her eyes, and listened.
Solari wasn't just fire—it was harmony. A fragment of the Flameborn's lost art: memory, light, and sound woven together in a single, radiant thread. As Ember breathed deeply, that thread began to unravel inside her, gently tugging her mind into the past.
And she sang.
A low, tremulous note slipped from her lips. It wasn't a language she knew, but it flowed like a river of starlight through her mouth. The chamber responded—the walls glowing in rhythm, the air itself vibrating in resonance.
Orin stepped forward warily. "Is this safe?"
"She's not summoning," Eryssa whispered. "She's remembering."
The room bloomed with imagery: visions rising from the floor like mist. A tall woman stood where Ember sat—a Flamebearer, robed in gold-threaded crimson, holding a harp of woven fire and crystal. Her voice was a melody, soft yet powerful, laced with sorrow and hope.
It was Solari.
"This shard once belonged to a Guardian of Flame and Song," Ember murmured, her voice overlapping with the spectral figure's. "She defended the southern refugees not with fire alone, but with memory—anchoring them to who they were, so they wouldn't forget."
The music faded.
The illusion vanished.
Ember opened her eyes, tears on her cheeks. "They erased this. Not just power. Culture. Identity. The Flameborn weren't just warriors. They were artists. Historians. Healers."
Orin paced, uneasy. "If Kael knew all this—if he was one of them—why try to bury it?"
Eryssa answered grimly. "Because memory is a weapon too. And someone used it to end the world."
Ember stood. "We need to find the third shard. The one tied to truth. The flame that remembers what happened at the end. Not just pieces. The whole."
They left the sanctuary under a waxing moon, making camp beneath whispering trees. As Ember drifted to sleep, Solari's lingering warmth held her like a lullaby, softening the night's chill.
And in her dreams, she saw it:
A tower of obsidian rising from a field of bones. At its peak, a shard pulsed in violent rhythm, red and raw—a memory that had never been meant to survive.
But it had.
And it waited.