Faerun had never felt so warm.
Not the comforting warmth of a hearth or sunlight through leaves, but the suffocating heat of an unrelenting forge—raw, ancient, angry. The air shimmered with distortion. Ash fell like snow.
They had crossed into the lands of the Ember Court, where the earth itself bled fire, and the trees stood petrified and charred, their blackened limbs twisted skyward like hands mid-scream. The red moon hung low on the horizon, casting everything in a crimson hue that made even shadows look like wounds.
No one spoke at first.
Words felt fragile here—like they might catch flame.
Iris adjusted the strap of her satchel, where the two Heart fragments pulsed faintly. Their glow had changed since she left the Hollow. They were warmer now, more eager, vibrating at her touch. Almost… impatient.
Nyx walked slightly ahead, a spell of glamor wrapped around the group to mask their presence. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a look of tight concentration. Even he, born of mischief and magic, knew better than to draw attention here.
"The Ember Court is always watching," he whispered. "They don't need eyes to see."
Thalen strode silently beside her, his expression unreadable. His armor shimmered with heat distortion, thorns steaming as they resisted the warmth of the land.
"So what exactly are we looking for?" Iris finally asked.
Thalen didn't answer immediately.
It was Nyx who spoke. "The Ember Throne. It's said to hold the third and final fragment—guarded by the king who hasn't died in over a thousand years."
"Hasn't… died?"
"He burns instead," Thalen said at last. "Every day. Over and over. His curse binds him to the throne—and to the fragment."
"And he won't just hand it over, I assume?"
Thalen gave her a dry glance. "Would you?"
The road to the Ember Throne was not marked by trails or stone, but by flame.
Literal fire sprouted from cracks in the ground, leaping in arcs that danced between ancient trees and glowing fissures. Iris quickly learned to trust her instincts—when the watch ticked, it was time to move, dodge, or duck. More than once, it warned her seconds before a fire spout erupted beneath her.
Still, the land itself pushed back.
At one point, they passed a village burned into cinders. The buildings still stood, ghostlike in structure, but everything was black and silent. Inside one house, Iris saw a table set for dinner—bowls full of dust. On the wall, a single word had been scorched in High Fae:
"REMEMBER."
They didn't stop to wonder what it meant.
By twilight, the air thickened.
Ahead, a vast canyon opened before them, its depths glowing with magma. A narrow bridge stretched across—shards of obsidian and metal fused together into something barely passable. At the far side stood two sentinels of flame—faceless warriors carved from ember and bone.
"The threshold," Thalen said.
Iris felt it before she saw it.
The Ember Court was more than a kingdom. It was a presence. It pressed against her thoughts like heat through skin, relentless and demanding.
"Step forward," the left sentinel said. Its voice crackled like firewood.
"State your name," the right echoed.
"Iris Thorne," she said, her voice steady despite her heartbeat. "Seer of Faerun. Bearer of the Heart fragments."
The sentinels didn't move.
Then one stepped aside.
"Enter the Ember Court," it intoned. "And be judged."
The court was… alive.
Not in the way cities breathe, but in the way furnaces do.
They entered a cathedral carved from molten obsidian. Lava rivers flowed down its pillars. The walls were etched with fire runes that shifted constantly, spelling words that Iris could not read but felt—grief, pride, wrath, hunger.
Fae nobles stood along the walls, robed in flames, their expressions blank masks of molten gold. None moved. None spoke.
At the far end of the chamber sat the Ember King.
His body was flame and ash, bound by a throne of blackened bone. Chains of molten steel wrapped his arms and chest, anchoring him to his seat. His crown floated above his head, spinning slowly, never touching.
His voice was thunder in fire. "Who seeks the fire that cannot die?"
Iris stepped forward. "I do. I seek the final fragment of the Heart."
The king's gaze turned to her—and time warped.
She saw herself as fire.
Burning away doubt.
Burning away fear.
Burning everything.
Then the moment passed.
"You carry the first two fragments," he said. "You would complete what the First Seer failed."
"I would heal what was broken."
The king laughed—a sound like a forest fire.
"You would burn, little seer. That is the cost."
"I'm not afraid," Iris said.
"No," the king replied. "But you will be."
The trial was not one of combat.
It was endurance.
They were taken to the Trial Chamber, a sunken arena surrounded by the Ember Court. Iris stood in the center as fire fell like rain. Not real flames—memories of flame. She saw herself as a child, watching her father leave and never return. She saw the night her watch ticked for the first time—and the loneliness that followed.
She saw every time she was called strange, broken, cursed.
She saw herself giving up.
The Ember King watched from above. "This is your weakness."
"I know," she whispered.
She dropped to her knees. The fire was in her lungs, her eyes, her bones.
But she didn't scream.
She reached inward instead.
To the truth.
She was not just a girl from Hollowmere.
She was the girl with the broken clock.
She was the girl the Veil called to.
She was the one who chose to step through, again and again.
The flames receded.
She stood.
And in the center of the arena, the third fragment shimmered into being—wreathed in blue fire, resting in a hollow of cooled glass.
Iris stepped forward and took it.
Everything changed.
The moment all three fragments touched, they fused—brilliant, blinding.
A pulse of energy shot through the Ember Court.
The nobles stirred.
The king roared—not in rage, but in release.
The chains melted.
His body dissolved into light.
"I am free," he whispered.
Then he was gone.
The Heart hovered before Iris, whole.
But something was wrong.
The ground shook.
Thalen looked around, sword drawn. "What did you do?"
"I don't—"
Before she could finish, a fissure opened in the air.
Not in the ground—in the sky.
The Veil tore.
And from it, something stepped through.
A figure of shadow and gold.
Its voice was many. "You should not have fixed what was meant to stay broken."
Nyx went pale. "That's not a court. That's not even… a being."
The figure raised its hand.
And the Heart shattered again.