The Whispering Vale lay before them like a wound upon the earth.
Amina had expected something... eerie. But nothing could have prepared her for the silence. Not the kind born of peace, but the kind that felt watched. The trees here were twisted, leaning inward as though conspiring. The air was thick—not with fog, but with memory.
Ashar halted at the edge. "Speak no lies within the Vale," he warned. "It listens."
Amina glanced at Aric, his arm bandaged but spirit still fierce. "And if we do?"
Ashar's jaw clenched. "Then it shows you your truth."
They crossed into the Vale, and at once, the light changed. The sun dimmed, though it still hung above. Sounds grew muffled—every step on the leaves echoing unnaturally, like footsteps in a dream.
Amina tightened her grip on her sword.
They moved as shadows, careful and wordless.
Until the first voice called.
"Amina…"
She froze.
The voice wasn't ahead. It was behind.
She turned sharply—nothing.
"Amina…" It came again, clearer this time. Her mother's voice.
No. That wasn't possible.
Her mother had died in the fire ten years ago.
"Ignore it," Ashar warned. "It will take the shape of your regret."
But how could she?
She saw her.
Her mother—dressed in the white ceremonial gown of the Flame Daughters, hair braided with crimson threads. Standing just feet away, reaching out.
"My little sunbird… why did you let me burn?"
Amina stumbled back, chest tightening.
"It's not her," Aric whispered, grabbing her wrist. "It's the Vale."
But tears welled in her eyes. "I didn't know. I was just a child…"
Suddenly, her mother's face melted into a charred skull, screaming.
The trees shrieked with her.
"Run!" Ashar shouted.
The forest came alive—roots tearing from the earth, vines slashing like whips. Shadows materialized, shaped like those they'd lost.
Amina ran, heart pounding. Not just from fear—but fury.
She would not be haunted. She was the flame, not the ash.
She summoned fire into her palm, sending a shockwave of gold through the air. The illusions shattered, the whispers screamed, and the forest recoiled—if only for a moment.
But that moment was all they needed.
They burst into a clearing—the center of the Vale.
And there, in its heart, stood a stone monolith carved with ancient runes.
Ashar dropped to one knee. "We're close. The Pyre's gate lies beneath this stone. But we need a key. A true flame, offered willingly."
He looked at Amina.
She didn't hesitate. She extended her palm and let the phoenix mark blaze. Her fire flowed into the monolith, tracing the runes with molten light.
The ground shook.
The stone split open with a groan, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.
But something else emerged, too.
A hiss.
A flicker of black flame.
Ashar's eyes widened. "No… it can't be—"
A figure rose from the shadows—tall, robed in flickering obsidian fire, a mask like molten bone.
The Ember Wraith.
"You've come far, little flame," he said, voice like broken glass. "But you carry more than fire."
Aric stepped forward, shielding Amina. "She won't fight you here."
"She won't have to," the Wraith said.
Then he turned… and walked away down the stairs.
"Follow," he called over his shoulder. "Or die wondering."
Ashar trembled. "This is a trap. He wants her to descend alone."
Amina stared at the stairway, the air above it rippling with heat and memory.
"I've come this far," she whispered. "I'll see it through."
Aric grabbed her arm. "I won't let you walk into death."
She faced him, eyes blazing. "Then walk with me."
Ashar cursed under his breath. "You're both mad."
"Maybe," she said.
And with that, Amina stepped into the dark.
The temperature dropped.
Each stair they descended seemed to lead not just downward, but inward—into themselves. Visions flickered on the walls: Amina's past, Aric's nightmares, even Ashar's buried sins.
At the base, a chamber opened—vast, domed, and pulsing with ancient magic.
In its center burned the Pyre of Souls.
A column of fire that burned without heat, its flames singing in languages no mortal throat could utter.
The Ember Wraith stood beside it, watching them.
"You seek power," he said to Amina. "But power demands truth."
He raised a hand.
The flame twisted.
And Amina screamed.
Not from pain—but recognition.
She had seen this fire before.
In the cradle. In the village. In the fire that took her mother.
The Pyre hadn't just chosen her.
It had created her.