The journey to Iskaran Thul began in silence.
Through valleys cloaked in mists and mountains scorched by ancient wars, Ember and her companions pressed on. Each mile carried them further from the last flicker of safety and deeper into the wild unknown, where maps ended and legends began.
Iskaran Thul had not been spoken of openly for centuries. Not even in whispers. Once the seat of the Flame's birth, it had fallen into ruin after the Ashen Lords vanished. Its very name conjured images of scorched soil, broken towers, and echoes of something darker—a power too ancient and primal to be defined.
On the seventh night, they reached the edge of the Riftlands. Beyond lay the charred wastes where nothing grew and nothing dared to live.
A black sky stretched above them, clouded with soot. The air smelled of coal and ash. Ember felt the flame within her respond—first with unease, then with something else.
Longing.
As if it recognized this place.
"This is it," Niall said, gesturing toward the shattered black spires on the horizon. "Iskaran Thul."
Ember stared ahead. Even from a distance, she could see the remnants of the ancient city: skeletal towers leaning into the wind, massive broken bridges suspended over rivers of hardened lava, and statues half-swallowed by the earth. There was no movement. No life. Only ruin.
They stepped into the city just after dawn, and silence swallowed them whole.
The roads were cracked obsidian, glassy and treacherous. Ember paused before a crumbling archway, its carvings faded but still recognizable—flames coiled like serpents, encircling a sun.
"The First Flame," she whispered.
Niall nodded. "This is where it was born. Not summoned. Not tamed. Born. The world was young, the sky still forming. And from its own breath, the flame ignited."
"But they tried to control it," Orin muttered, brushing dust off a shattered mural. "And they failed."
"No," Niall said, "they succeeded—for a time. And that success broke them."
As they walked deeper into the ruins, Ember's thoughts became fragmented. She kept seeing flickers—visions that weren't hers. Flames consuming the city in slow spirals. Shadows cloaked in firelight. Faces without names, eyes burning gold.
They reached the temple at the city's center just before sunset.
Massive stone doors stood ajar, melted in places from some long-forgotten blast. Inside, murals covered the walls—depictions of beings wreathed in fire, holding councils, waging wars, embracing light… and then turning against it.
At the center of the temple stood a dais. Upon it, a brazier—unlit, cold, yet untouched by time.
Ember approached, and the flame within her pulsed.
She reached out slowly… and the brazier flared to life.
No flint. No fuel. Just flame—alive and aware.
And then she heard it again.
Not a voice, not like before. A song. A low, humming chorus rising from the stones themselves. The Flame remembered. It welcomed her.
And something else awakened with it.
The shadows in the corners of the temple moved.
Figures stepped out, robed in scorched cloth, their eyes hollow and glowing.
"The Flameborn returns," they intoned as one. "The Circle awaits."
Ember stepped back, hand instinctively raised, flame flickering in her palm. "Who are you?"
The tallest among them removed their hood. Beneath it was not a face, but flame in the shape of one.
"We are the Remnants. The ones who refused to ascend. We remember the truth you were never told. And now, Ember Solara, it is time you remembered it, too."