The night was thick with silence as Irelia and Nariel approached Ignisia's gates. The lanterns flickered atop the wooden walls, casting long, wavering shadows over the road. The air was crisp, tinged with the lingering scent of forge fires—now little more than faint embers carried on the wind.
There was no waiting crowd. No grand welcome.
Just two guards stationed by the heavy wooden gate, their armor gleaming under the dim torchlight.
At the sound of approaching hooves, one of them—a graying man with a weathered face—straightened, squinting into the darkness. Then, recognition flickered across his expression, followed by a small, knowing chuckle.
"Well, if it isn't Irelia Aerith. Was starting to think you'd run off for good this time."
Irelia exhaled slowly, exhaustion pressing against her bones, but she mustered a tired smirk as she pulled Aurelia to a stop.
She wasn't surprised they were still on duty.
Nariel noted the way she carried herself—unfazed, familiar. Irelia had come through these gates enough times to know the night watch by name.
"Got caught up in a longer job," Irelia replied, her voice even, unreadable.
The second guard—a younger man, taller, leaner—grinned. "Figures. You always take the weird ones."
"Pays well," she shot back.
The first guard's gaze flicked past her, landing on Nariel. A subtle shift. An assessing look. "You alright?"
Irelia nodded. Lying. But what else was new?
"In one piece. More or less."
The older guard studied her for a moment longer before knocking twice against the wooden gate. A signal.
The heavy doors groaned as they were pulled open.
"Welcome back."
Routine words. Simple.
But something about them felt… different.
Familiar.
Nariel remained quiet as they passed through the gates, her gaze flicking toward Irelia.
"You seem to be on good terms with them," she remarked after a beat.
Irelia shrugged. "They're acquaintances."
That, apparently, wasn't the answer Nariel expected.
She studied Irelia, brows slightly furrowed as if trying to piece together a puzzle.
Acquaintances.
Such a mundane word. An ordinary familiarity. And that was what caught Nariel off guard.
The Irelia she had known never stayed anywhere long enough to form these kinds of bonds—however small, however simple. The Irelia she had known was always moving, always running. Never stopping long enough to belong anywhere.
And yet here she was, exchanging casual words with town guards like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Nariel wasn't sure how she felt about that.
And judging by the way Irelia said nothing more, neither was she.
They rode through the quiet streets of Ignisia, the town winding around them in flickering lamplight. The weight of exhaustion sat heavy on their shoulders, yet the tension between them was heavier still.
When the inn came into view, Irelia pulled Aurelia's reins, bringing the horse to a halt in front of the entrance.
The sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze. The warm glow of candlelight seeped through the windows, illuminating the tired faces of travelers and knights within.
Nariel dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. She looked at Irelia—but Irelia kept her eyes forward, fingers tightening around the reins.
She didn't know why she couldn't look at Nariel.
Maybe because she already knew what was coming next.
Nariel didn't hesitate.
"We should take the Egg to the Order," she said, voice firm despite the weariness creeping into it.
Irelia exhaled through her nose. There it was.
"No."
Nariel's jaw tightened. "You can't be serious. It's safer in the hands of the Order—"
"Safer?" Irelia finally turned, exhaustion sharpening the edge of her voice. "Nariel, we don't even know who we can trust. The Order might be compromised, for all we know. Said so yourself, remember? The Ashen Veil infiltrated towns, noble houses, and—knightly orders."
Nariel's throat tightened. That had been her warning.
And yet—"That's a risk we can't afford to ignore."
"And giving it to them is a risk I won't take."
The words hung between them, heavy and unrelenting.
Nariel's fists curled at her sides. "You can't keep this up, Irelia."
"I'm not arguing about this right now."
Irelia was too tired for this fight. Too drained to say what needed to be said. Too worn down to deal with the storm building behind Nariel's eyes.
Before the conversation could escalate further, she exhaled sharply and forced her voice into something neutral.
"We'll talk later."
It was the way she said it—too even. Too distant.
Too final.
Nariel felt it. And that was what made her hesitate.
She wanted to call out to Irelia. To push. To argue.
But Irelia was already nudging Aurelia forward. The mare obeyed, stepping into motion, carrying her away before Nariel could find the words she needed.
She remained where she stood, watching as Irelia disappeared down the street.
She told herself she should call out. Say something. Anything.
But she didn't.
Because part of her wanted to stop her.
And part of her… was relieved she didn't.
Later.
The word tasted hollow.
Nariel exhaled, turned toward the inn, and forced herself to move.
For now, at least, the conversation was over.
But it wasn't finished.
Not by a long shot.
Irelia sighed the moment her home came into view.
The small cottage stood at the edge of town, unassuming, and quiet. A place she had claimed as hers, though she wasn't sure if she had ever truly settled into it.
Aurelia slowed to a stop in the back garden, where a modest stable stood—small, but well-kept. Usually, Irelia left her mare at the town's main stables, where she could roam freely with other horses. But tonight…
"Sorry, girl. I'll take you to the stables tomorrow. Too tired."
Aurelia huffed, shaking her mane, but didn't protest. Irelia barely had the strength to dismount, her legs buckling slightly as she landed. She patted the mare's neck—a quiet apology—before turning toward her door.
The house was dark inside, still and untouched. Too quiet. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. And for the first time since they left the ruins—since the battle, since everything—she was truly alone.
The cottage was small but sturdy—a sanctuary built from necessity, not luxury. Five rooms: a kitchen she barely used, a parlor cluttered with books and ink-stained journals, a bathroom with a wooden tub large enough to soak away battle aches, a workshop filled with scattered runestones and alchemical tools, and her bedroom—a room built for pure comfort.
The parlor smelled of parchment, faint traces of incense still lingering in the air. Her workspace was as she had left it—unfinished engravings, half-carved runes, an abandoned project gathering dust. She had meant to complete it before taking on her last job. That felt like a lifetime ago.
By the time Irelia stepped into her bedroom, every step felt like a battle against gravity.
The room was dim, the fireplace cold and unlit. A large, overstuffed bed sat against the far wall, the mattress inviting in its warmth. Above the hearth, a painting of a phoenix soared over a sea of fire, its wings stretched toward the heavens.
She barely managed to strip off her belt and boots before collapsing onto the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath her weight, swallowing her whole.
She should light the fire. The air carried the bite of late autumn, creeping through the cracks, settling in the spaces between her bones. But the thought of moving—of even lifting a hand—felt impossible.
So instead, she stared at the painting.
A Memory in Fire
Leona. That was the artist's name. She couldn't remember the surname.
It had been over a year ago. A simple job.
A local painter had been on the verge of a breakdown, panicking over a lost commission. She had run out of a specific pigment—a deep, rich crimson that could only be extracted from rare mountain berries. The problem?
The nearest grove was dangerously close to a wyrm's nest.
Irelia had barely glanced at the job request before setting it aside. The coin wasn't worth the risk.
But fate had already decided for her.
She had been hired separately to deal with the wyrm. Two birds, one stone.
She still remembered the painter's stunned expression when she returned—berry-stained fingers and wyrm blood still drying on her sleeve. Leona had been on the verge of tears, her relief so overwhelming that she had nearly dropped to her knees in gratitude. The whole display had made Irelia wildly uncomfortable.
Then, weeks later, Leona had knocked on her door, unannounced.
She had carried a painting wrapped in cloth, her hands trembling slightly—not from fear, but from excitement.
"For you," she had said. "A gift."
Irelia had hesitated before unwrapping it, expecting something small. Something simple.
Instead, she had found this.
A phoenix in flight.
A painting of fire and sky, wings stretched wide, soaring above a world consumed by embers.
It had taken her breath away.
Leona had never asked for payment. She had simply smiled, eyes bright with something akin to reverence, and then left.
Now, staring at the painting in the dim glow of the moonlight, Irelia wondered—where was she now? Did she still live in Ignisia? Had she moved on to grander commissions?
Did she still paint?
A question for another day.
She sighed, closing her eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling her under.
And she dreamed of fire.
She was flying.
Not with wings, not with magic—just soaring, untethered, free.
Above her, the sky stretched in endless hues of gold and crimson. Below her, the world burned.
But it was not destruction.
It was something older.
And beside her, two phoenixes flew.
Their wings cut through the wind, their bodies radiant with molten light, each movement effortless.
And in the distance, something stirred.
Something ancient.
Something waiting.
Then—
She woke.
A sharp inhale. The room was silent. The fire was still unlit.
And the Egg pulsed faintly in her palm.
She didn't remember reaching for it. But now, her fingers were curled around its smooth surface.
A steady, rhythmic warmth seeped into her skin. A heartbeat.
She sat up slowly, staring at it in the dim morning light.
The sun had barely begun to rise, spilling soft gold through the curtains. Outside, Ignisia was waking. The distant clang of Thalric's forge, the muffled voices of merchants setting up their stalls, the rhythmic trotting of horses along cobbled streets.
Irelia let out a slow breath, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Her clothes—burnt, torn, streaked with dried blood and dust—made her grimace. The sheets weren't much better.
A bath.
She needed a bath.
Steam curled through the air as she poured hot water into the wooden tub, the scent of dried herbs infusing the space. The warmth was welcome against her skin as she lowered herself in, muscles aching, bruises throbbing, the cuts along her arms stinging.
But it was a relief.
A slow, grounding relief.
The Egg sat on a small table nearby, flickering softly in the dim candlelight.
She watched it.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Did nothing.
Then, slowly, she reached out, brushing her fingers against its smooth surface.
It was warm. Not scalding, not burning—just warm.
Seeping into her skin like the embers of a fire long banked.
She turned it over in her hands.
"Like the phoenix eggs of legend." She whispered. "Phoenix Egg, huh?"
It pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Why me?
She exhaled. The question felt too heavy.
But then—Kaellum's letter surfaced in her mind.
The Phoenix Marks. Vanishing.
Pyraxis. The Titan of Fire. The Father of Phoenixes.
House Aerith had always been bound to fire, their lineage steeped in a power older than kingdoms. Summoning magic was rare—an elusive gift possessed by only a few. Yet even the most gifted summoners in the world were mere shadows compared to the weakest of House Aerith.
To them, creatures of legend and myth were not distant, untouchable beings, but familiars—companions summoned with ease, as if plucking embers from a flame.
But why phoenixes?
Why was it called the Phoenix Mark and not the Summoner's Mark?
Pyraxis.
The Phoenix Mark wasn't just a birthright.
It was a gift.
From what deity, no one in House Aerith had ever known.
Until now.
Now, she was certain.
It was a gift from Pyraxis.
Her fingers curled tightly around the Egg.
Pyraxis had sacrificed both his power and his life to protect the world, ensuring its survival. To prevent another catastrophe, another disaster like the Great War of Titans, he bestowed a gift upon her ancestors—a blessing, the phoenix mark, and the power it carried.
But now… those safeguards were fading.
The cult was disturbing Pyraxis' legacy and a gift from the titan is vanishing.
It wasn't a coincidence.
Her house.
Her ancestors.
Her brother.
They were all tied to this.
And so was she—her past life, the books she had written, the runes that were no longer just fiction but reality.
She closed her eyes.
The warm water lapped against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing into her chest.
She exhaled, pressing her forehead against the Egg.
"I never wanted this."
But even as she thought it, she knew the truth.
She couldn't walk away.
Not from this.