It was spring in the Valley of Embers.
The grass had thickened, soft and verdant beneath the breeze, and the tree that had grown where Malveth fell now stood tall enough to cast a shadow over the glade. Its golden leaves whispered when the wind passed through, as though the world itself were still learning to speak again.
Kaela stood at the edge of the cliff, her cloak rippling behind her, watching the sun set over the mountains. The sky bled with color—amber, crimson, violet—and for the first time in years, none of it was fire.
It was peace.
Behind her, Tess approached, no longer a child. She was twelve now, though fire had never measured time as mortals did. She walked with quiet confidence, her presence serene and strange, like the calm that follows the breaking of a great storm.
"They're lighting the torches in Haldrin," Tess said, gesturing toward the distant capital. "It's Flame Day."
Kaela turned, smiling softly. "Already? I keep losing track of time."
"It's been a year."
Kaela let out a slow breath. A year since the battle at the Godscar. Since the last cry of a god. Since the world chose to remember, rather than forget.
"I thought I'd feel lighter," Kaela admitted. "But sometimes I wonder if I left part of myself back there. Buried in the scar."
Tess knelt and placed a hand on the ground. It glowed faintly beneath her palm. "Not buried. Rooted."
That night, the valley bloomed with lantern-light. All across the reborn world, people gathered for the first Flame Day—a celebration of rebirth, of fire no longer feared but cherished. The festival stretched from the plains of Dervan to the high peaks of Norran, and at its heart stood Haldrin, capital of the Kindled Accord.
In the city square, flame-dancers spun beneath floating cinders. Children painted their faces with streaks of red and gold. Merchants sold candles shaped like phoenixes, and scholars read verses from the Ember Archive—written by Maltherin before his passing.
Kaela sat at the edge of the celebration, wearing no crown. She didn't need it anymore. People recognized her not for her title, but for what she had endured. What she had rebuilt.
Faelan joined her, draped in a ceremonial cloak, his hair streaked with gray. He handed her a flask of spicewine.
"To fire," he said.
She took a sip. "To fire that does not consume."
Later, in the quiet garden behind the palace, Kaela walked among the flame-lilies Tess had planted. Their petals opened only under starlight, glowing with inner heat. She found Eryndor waiting there, sharpening a blade that would likely never be used again.
"You stayed longer than I thought you would," she said.
Eryndor didn't look up. "Someone had to make sure the Accord didn't tear itself apart in its first year."
"You've always been good at holding lines."
He finally turned, his eyes softer than she remembered. "What about you, Kaela? Will you stay?"
She paused. "No. The work here is done. But the world is wide. There are still ruins, still wounds. And I can't be a symbol forever. Symbols don't get to heal."
Eryndor nodded slowly. "Then go. But come back, when you can. The world will always need its flamebearer."
At dawn, Kaela rode out from Haldrin with Tess and a small company of trusted wanderers. No banners. No trumpets. Just the open road and the hum of the Ember Crown, sealed now in the vault beneath the Spire, guarded by the Flamekeepers.
As they passed villages, people came to greet them. Some offered bread. Others held candles, which Kaela lit with a touch of her hand.
A child ran up and asked, "Are you the woman from the stories?"
Kaela knelt. "Which stories?"
"The one who walked into fire and came out gold."
Kaela smiled. "I'm just someone who remembered how to carry it."
And then she rode on.
One night, as they camped beside the ruins of an old watchtower near the sea, Tess brought Kaela a folded piece of parchment. It was a map, drawn in delicate ink and glowing lines.
"What is this?" Kaela asked.
"The fire speaks to me sometimes. In dreams. It showed me places—forgotten temples, broken altars, old flames that never went out."
Kaela studied the map. It marked lands she had never seen. Archipelagos lost to time. Mountain fortresses swallowed by ice. Even a distant continent across the Jade Sea.
"You want to go to all of these?"
Tess nodded. "I think they're waiting."
Kaela looked up at the stars. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
Years passed.
The world turned.
The Kindled Accord expanded, not through conquest, but through story. Every Flame Day, people lit candles in honor not just of Kaela and Tess, but of all who burned and endured. The Flamekeepers became guides and historians, teachers and midwives of change.
And in time, Kaela became legend.
Some said she walked on coals without harm. Others claimed she could speak to dragons. A few whispered that she and Tess had vanished into the heart of a volcano and never returned.
But once a generation, a rider in red and gold would appear at the edge of a village in need. They never asked for payment. They only asked one thing:
"Do you remember the fire?"