Morning arrived with fog that clung low to the ground like something alive. The forest around the cabin was quiet — not dead, but watchful. As if every leaf and branch knew what was coming.
Elira tightened her scarf and followed Ash down a barely marked trail, the journals packed safely in her satchel. Neither of them had spoken much since dawn. The quiet felt sacred, as if breaking it too soon might shatter whatever spell they were under.
"How far is it?" she asked finally.
Ash glanced back. "Half a mile. Maybe less."
They walked in silence until the trees began to thin, and then suddenly, there it was — the river.
It wasn't wide, but it moved fast, slicing through the land like a silver thread. Mist curled over its surface. On the far side stood a stone arch, crumbling but still tall enough to walk through. Carved into its curve were faded symbols neither of them recognized.
Elira stepped to the edge of the water. The current murmured constantly, a low hush, like dozens of voices speaking at once just beneath the surface.
"This is it," Ash said quietly. "The River of Names."
She crouched beside the bank, fingertips brushing the damp moss. "What do we do?"
Ash opened Marian's journal to a marked page.
> Speak the name. The true name. Not the one the world knows, but the one that came first. The river remembers.
Elira swallowed. "I don't even know my true name."
"You do," Ash said, kneeling beside her. "It's buried in you, like a spark under ash. Say what you feel. Say what burns."
She hesitated, eyes on the water.
Then, softly, "Elira Vale."
The river didn't respond.
Ash stepped forward. "Not strong enough. Say it like you believe it."
She drew a breath.
And this time, her voice rang clear: "My name is Elira Vale. Daughter of fire. Keeper of ink. And I want the truth."
The wind stopped.
The mist rippled. The current slowed.
And then—voices.
Dozens. Hundreds.
All speaking at once. All saying her name.
"Elira... Elira Vale... Daughter of fire..."
She stumbled back, startled.
Ash caught her arm, steadying her.
The surface of the river shimmered, and an image rose from it — not water, not reflection, but something else. Something real.
A woman stood in the current.
Tall, with dark curls. Eyes that burned gold. Her expression was fierce and proud.
"Marian," Elira whispered.
The image nodded, her mouth opening — but no sound came.
"She's trying to speak," Ash said.
Elira stepped forward. "Tell me. Tell me why I remember."
The image raised a hand, palm glowing with symbols that pulsed like embers. One by one, they burned themselves into the air.
> They are coming. The others have not forgotten. The fire must rise again.
The river surged. The image flickered.
Ash grabbed Elira's hand. "She's fading."
"Wait!" Elira cried. "What fire? Who's coming?"
The final message burned into the air:
> The Hollow Flame walks. Trust no one with a silver tongue.
Then the image dissolved, drawn back into the current.
The river went silent.
Elira stood frozen, heart pounding. "The Hollow Flame…?"
Ash looked pale. "That's not just a warning. That's a prophecy."
The mist thickened again. But this time, Elira didn't feel alone.
The fire had spoken.
And its message had only just begun.