The journey northward took them through lands Ember had only heard of in fragments—regions once ruled by the Ashborn, a splinter sect of the Flameborn who were blamed for accelerating the fall. According to legend, they turned against the Council, wielding corrupted fire drawn from forbidden memory.
But Veritas told her otherwise.
As they crossed into the Ashvault Basin, the land grew eerily silent. Black stone jutted from the earth like the spines of buried giants. Ruins of old sanctums, half-consumed by lava flows now cooled to obsidian, lined the ridges. And through it all, Ember felt… drawn.
The ash here was different.
It whispered.
"It's like the land's trying to speak," Ember murmured.
Eryssa nodded. "The Ashborn buried their truths deep. Not just in fire. In the bones of the earth."
Orin didn't hide his discomfort. "Let's hope they want to be heard."
They reached a sunken valley near nightfall. At its center was a collapsed amphitheater, cracked and overgrown. Once, it had held thousands. Now, only stone and silence remained.
Ember stepped into the center ring, the ash parting around her like water.
And the voices rose.
Not screams. Not echoes. Memories.
Spectral shapes shimmered into view—men and women, wreathed in smoke, their hands outstretched not in anger, but in mourning. Each bore a mark over their heart: the inverted flame of the Ashborn.
They spoke in fragments:
"—we begged the Council—"
"—memory must not be hoarded—"
"—they feared what we knew—"
Ember stood still as the images played around her. These were not monsters. They had not turned against the Flame. They had tried to preserve it.
The Ashborn were historians. Flame-keepers of the people's voice, not just the Council's. And when they opposed the erasure of memory, the Council branded them heretics.
"They died protecting truth," Ember said, voice raw.
At the edge of the ring, a shadow shifted—and stepped forward.
It wasn't a specter.
A figure cloaked in ember-weave, face masked in cracked ceramic, emerged from behind a fallen pillar. Red eyes burned behind the mask.
"You are not of the Ashborn," the figure said. "Yet you carry their burden."
Ember bowed her head. "I carry their memory. And the Council's. I seek to awaken all that was lost."
The figure studied her in silence. Then they removed the mask.
A young woman, scarred by flame but unbowed. Her voice was low, but steady.
"I am Lysra. Last flamekeeper of the Ashvault. And you're too late."
A shard hung at her neck—smaller, faintly glowing, but cracked down the middle.
Ember stepped forward slowly. "You have a shard."
"I had it," Lysra said. "Before the Warden came."