The battlefield was a mess of blood, fire, and smoke. Screams and steel echoed into the morning, but all Amina could hear was the sickening crack of Aric's fall and the thunderous beat of her own heart.
"Get him out of here!" she screamed, crouched beside his body, her hands glowing faintly as she pressed them against his wound.
Aric's lips were pale, his eyes fluttering. The arrow had sunk deep—too close to the lung.
"Stay with me, Aric," she whispered, her voice cracking as panic edged her strength. "Don't you dare die on me."
Around her, her flames flickered erratically, responding to the storm inside her.
"Clear the way!" Captain Joren's voice barked from behind. Soldiers surged forward to guard her, forming a circle of steel and flame.
"We're losing ground!" another soldier shouted.
Amina didn't look up. She could feel Aric slipping—his pulse weakening.
She gritted her teeth. "No."
Her hand hovered above the wound. In the pit of her chest, something ancient stirred. A whisper. A beckoning. Her vision blurred until all she could see was the fire in her mind.
"Sacrifice the flame… mend the flesh."
She didn't know where the voice came from, but her instincts screamed it was real. Dangerous. But also… the only chance.
She closed her eyes and let the fire flow—not to destroy, but to heal.
It hurt. Like peeling back her soul. Her scream echoed through the battlefield as golden fire poured into Aric's wound, sealing torn flesh, burning away infection, mending what was broken.
The pain was unbearable—but she didn't stop.
She couldn't.
Not until Aric gasped—and opened his eyes.
They rode hard after the battle. Victory was theirs, but the cost had been high. The enemy had fled, leaving behind burning tents and broken weapons. It wasn't a complete win—it was a warning.
Amina sat silently beside Aric in the healer's wagon. The color had returned to his face, but his eyes stayed on her, troubled.
"You saved me," he finally said, voice hoarse.
"You would have done the same," she replied, brushing damp hair from his brow.
"But at what cost?"
She hesitated. "Some part of my flame is… gone. I used it to save you. I didn't even know it was possible."
"Are you alright?"
"I don't know." She looked down at her hands. No fire sparked from her fingertips now. They were still. Human. Empty.
Aric took her hand gently. "You gave up part of your gift… for me?"
"You're more than a commander, Aric. You're—" She stopped herself. Too many eyes. Too many ears. "You matter."
He smiled faintly. "Then I swear I'll be worth the cost."
But neither of them noticed the dark hawk circling above—nor the shadowed figure watching from the woods, red eyes gleaming with interest.
Three days later, they returned to the capital.
The city gates opened with a roar of welcome, but behind the cheering crowd stood watchful eyes—noble lords, cloaked spies, and priests cloaked in crimson robes.
Among them stood Elias Draymoor, the High Chancellor. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
Amina dismounted and bowed slightly. "Chancellor."
"Your Highness." His voice was smooth as silk but held no warmth. "You've returned with tales of victory and... miracles."
She nodded cautiously. "The rebellion is pushed back for now. But it's not over."
"No. It never is." His eyes flicked to Aric being helped off the wagon. "I heard he was struck fatally. Yet here he stands."
Amina's jaw tightened. "He survived. That's what matters."
Draymoor offered a cold smile. "Of course. And yet, rumors spread like wildfire. Some say you wield a forgotten form of flame. One that heals. One that… corrupts."
"Rumors are for fools."
"Indeed. But we live in a kingdom of fools. Be careful, Princess. Power attracts worship… and war."
With that, he turned and vanished into the crowd.
That night, Amina returned to the royal library. She passed hidden doors and dusty scrolls, her heart racing. She needed answers.
Her fire hadn't returned. Her magic felt… fractured. And yet, in that fracture, something new was growing.
At the far end of the library, behind a crumbling tapestry, she found it—The Codex Ignis. The Book of Flame.
She opened it slowly. The pages whispered in an ancient tongue. Glyphs pulsed with a dull, golden light.
One passage caught her eye:
"To heal with fire is to offer oneself to the flame. Only those marked by the phoenix may be reborn in its ashes."
Her breath caught.
Marked by the phoenix.
The symbol that had burned into the earth when the Ember Wraith vanished.
She sat down hard on the floor, her mind spinning.
"Who am I really?" she whispered.
Suddenly, a warm glow lit the room.
The symbol of a phoenix blazed across her palm.