The air in the city of Virelia buzzed with whispers—of omens, betrayals, and a girl who wielded both frost and fire. In the opulent marble hall of the Crescent Citadel, the council sat in nervous silence, their silks rustling like dry leaves in a storm. They spoke not aloud, but in the language of glances—furtive, sharp, questioning. All of them had heard of Ais by now. None of them could agree what she truly was. Some believed she was a weapon sent by the gods; others whispered she was a reckoning long overdue.
"Witch," said Lord Evaran, his eyes narrowed beneath his jeweled circlet. "Or worse—abomination. The blood of fire and ice does not mix unless cursed."
"Or chosen," countered Lady Elianne, fingers wrapped tightly around her scepter. "There are prophecies older than this council. One speaks of a queen born in sorrow, forged in dual flame. She will either bring salvation or ash."
Lord Evaran scoffed, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear. "And those same prophecies foretold rivers of blood."
Outside the city, across scorched fields and frozen streams, Ais walked silently. Her boots cracked against brittle ice, yet left fire-scorched footprints behind. Her power had grown—uncontrolled, yes, but undeniable. The balance within her trembled like a sword stretched between two worlds. There were moments her breath steamed with ice and moments her pulse glowed with heat. She was no longer merely surviving; she was becoming. Each step she took echoed with quiet resolve, as if the land itself listened. The sky above mirrored her conflict—clouds brooding in clashing hues of frost-blue and ember-red.
Beside her rode Vael, his voice the only warmth in her stormy silence. "They fear you now," he said softly, watching her from the corner of his eye. "You've become the myth they warned of."
"I didn't ask for their fear," Ais replied. "I didn't ask for this war, for this power. I just want my family back." Her voice cracked at the end, and the fire in her steps faltered for a moment.
Vael hesitated. "We might find a trace in the Hollow Flame."
Ais turned to him, her expression wary. "That's just a story."
"So were you, once."
The Hollow Flame was not a place—it was a memory that never died, a realm between realms, where fire remembered the shape of things it burned, and ice preserved the ashes. Hidden in the ruins of the Cradle of Seasons, it was said to guard the truths lost to time, sealed behind elemental locks only the destined could break.
They traveled in silence, the sky growing heavier with stormlight as they approached the ancient ruins. Trees frozen mid-bloom lined the shattered path—petals of fire and frost crackling in the wind. The scent of charred bark and cold minerals filled the air. As they passed beneath archways long collapsed, the weight of forgotten centuries pressed on them like a second sky. Wind howled through broken towers, carrying voices that were not their own—echoes of pain and glory, locked in stone.
Inside the Cradle, time twisted. Walls wept with steam, as if mourning their forgotten builders. Vines etched in ice trailed over crumbled stones. Echoes bounced between cracked pillars, fragments of memory half-remembered. Ais placed her palm upon the central altar, where once a flame burned eternal.
It flickered to life.
And from the fire, a voice emerged—her mother's voice. Ethereal, trembling with distance, yet unmistakably real.
"Ais... my child... if you have found this flame, then our bloodline still breathes."
Her knees buckled. Vael caught her, his grip strong yet gentle. His own eyes shimmered with unspoken emotion.
"But this power," the voice continued, "was never meant to remain divided. You must choose... burn the world to save your kin—or freeze your heart to save them all."
The flame dimmed, sputtered, then steadied into a faint glow.
Silence fell.
"I don't want to choose," Ais whispered. Her voice was almost too soft for the room to hold.
Vael's voice was firm. "Then we'll forge a new path. One they never saw coming."
But even as he spoke, shadows coiled in the ruins, eyes watching, waiting. The cracked floor shimmered as ancient glyphs pulsed beneath the stone—reactivated by the flame, or perhaps by Ais herself. Whispers echoed through the chamber, too faint to catch, yet heavy with dread. The air thickened with a weight not born of gravity, but memory.
The Hollow Flame had been awakened.
And not everything that remembered her... wished her well.
Far above, in a balcony long overrun with frostweed, a figure in crimson observed. She wore no crown, yet her presence was imperial. Her lips curled slightly as she turned away from the scene. The first piece had moved. Now the game would begin.
In the sky above, clouds churned unnaturally, streaks of molten gold flashing between shades of indigo and iron. The Hollow Flame pulsed faintly in rhythm with the storm, as if the world itself had begun to breathe differently. Something ancient stirred in the depths of the ruins—a groan of stone and memory, of long-buried secrets yearning to be unearthed. Beneath the ruins, something older than prophecy stirred.
Ais shivered, though not from cold. She looked up, her eyes reflecting firelight and fear. Vael moved to her side, uncertain, ready.
From the darkened corridor, footsteps echoed.
They were no longer alone.
Then came a sound—low, melodic, like a lullaby sung in reverse. The very walls responded to it, rippling with waves of flame and frost. Glyphs brightened, spinning in new patterns. Ais's heart raced as visions rushed through her—her siblings in cages of ice, her parents cloaked in shadows, voices calling from beyond the veils of memory. She gasped, overwhelmed, as one voice rose above the others—her father's, whispering her name.
Vael gripped his blade. "Prepare yourself. Whatever it is—it's not mortal."
A figure stepped into the flickering firelight. Not demon, not man. Eyes like twin voids, robes of ash and ember. He spoke in an ancient tongue, and Ais understood every word.
"You awaken that which should not remember. You challenge fate itself."
She straightened, meeting his gaze. "Then fate better be ready."
The chamber quaked slightly as the figure raised one hand, fingers splayed like the roots of a dying tree. Shadows surged, and the fire dimmed around them. From the glyphs came soft vibrations—ancient wards struggling to hold. The Hollow Flame's glow flared in defiance, illuminating faces long buried in time, now watching through the veil. The scent of sulfur and old magic clung to the air.
Ais stepped forward, her breath steadying. "Who are you?"
"I am the Keeper of the Flame's Memory," the figure said. "Long have I waited for the bloodline to return. And with it, judgment."
Judgment? Vael glanced at Ais. "This doesn't sound like help."
The Keeper continued, voice now resonating with layered echoes. "Two fates lie before you. One of ruin. One of sacrifice. Neither kind. Both inevitable."
"No," Ais said, heat crackling in her voice. "I refuse to believe those are the only choices. I'll forge a third—one that breaks your prophecies."
The Keeper stilled. Then he bowed—not with grace, but with the weight of ancient sorrow.
"Then your trial begins."
The floor split open in spirals of light and shadow, and Ais fell, Vael leaping after her. The world twisted, and the Hollow Flame shrieked into the void.