Tarin didn't speak again for a long time. Not as Elara wrapped a blanket around his thin shoulders, not when Raphael gave him water, not even when the flames of the hearth crackled gently beside him. He just stared—at the fire, at the floor, at nothing.
Elara crouched beside him. "The ones in silver masks... do you know where they went after?"
The boy nodded slowly, his voice hoarse. "West. Toward the hills. They took the others. My sister… she tried to run."
A sharp ache cut through her chest. She clenched her jaw, forcing it down. "We'll find them."
Tarin's eyes flicked to her for the first time. "You can't. Everyone says they're shadows. Ghosts with metal faces."
"They bleed," Raphael said from behind her, voice low. "So they can be stopped."
The fire popped loudly. Elara stood, her spine straightening as she turned to Raphael. "We go after them."
He didn't argue—but there was hesitation in his eyes. "This isn't training. This is war."
"Then it's time I stopped running from it."
He met her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his. "We leave at first light. The closer we get to the hill passes, the more dangerous it'll become. The Order may be ahead of us."
Elara's fingers twitched at her sides. The fire still whispered in her blood like a distant song. It frightened her how familiar it felt now. How comforting.
"Teach me something," she said suddenly.
Raphael raised a brow. "Now?"
"You said the Order would come. That others would try to use me. I need to know how to fight back."
He considered her for a long moment, then motioned toward the hearth. "Call it again. Not with rage this time. With focus."
Elara stepped toward the flames. They licked gently at the logs, dancing as if waiting. She reached toward them—not physically, but with something deeper. A thought. A pull.
"Breathe in," Raphael murmured. "Let your heartbeat match the flame's rhythm. Fire responds to rhythm. To emotion. But also to will."
She exhaled slowly. Her heartbeat pulsed like a drum, steady, slow, deliberate.
The flame leapt.
It twisted, curling toward her open palm, hovering just above her skin without burning. For a second, it stayed there—alive, tame, hers.
Then her focus faltered. A memory crept in—her mother screaming, smoke choking the sky—and the fire flared.
"Let go!" Raphael snapped.
She did, stumbling back. The flame burst upward, then died into a smoldering hush.
Elara caught her breath, palms trembling. "It still listens. I just… don't know how to hold it."
"You will," he said. "But you must decide—are you leading the fire, or are you letting it lead you?"
Before she could respond, a soft voice broke the silence.
"I saw one of them touch fire too," Tarin whispered. "One of the silver masks. But it didn't hurt him. He held it like… like it belonged to him."
Elara turned slowly. "What do you mean?"
"He wore a pendant," Tarin said, finger brushing his chest. "Black stone. And the fire—it bent toward him. Like yours did."
Raphael went very still.
"What is it?" Elara asked him.
He stared into the hearth. "I thought they were all gone. But if the Order's using blackstone relics again... it means they've found the ancient binds."
"Binds?" Elara asked.
"Magic forged to enslave elements. Not wield them. Twist them. Break them."
A chill settled in her chest. "So they'll come for me, not just to stop me—but to chain me."
"Yes," Raphael said quietly. "And if they do, they'll turn you into a weapon of ruin."
She looked at Tarin—curled up small, clutching the blanket. Then to the firelight flickering over the broken inn. Then to Raphael.
"Then we don't give them the chance."
He met her eyes.
"Then we go to Solrath Keep," she said. "We find the last flame-reader. And we burn down everything they try to build."
Dawn broke like a bruise—smeared purple and gold across the horizon, silent and bleeding. The wind was colder in the hills, sharper, as if it knew what paths they would soon walk.
Elara adjusted the straps of her satchel, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. Tarin rode beside her on the old mare Raphael had found near the ruins of the stable. He said nothing, but his eyes never stopped scanning the horizon. Watching. Waiting. Like prey who'd learned what real danger smelled like.
Raphael led them with practiced quiet, every step deliberate. They spoke little. Silence was easier than explaining the fear wrapped around their spines like a second skin.
Solrath Keep lay days away, deep in the scorched spines of the western cliffs, where the ruins of the old Emberfall court still whispered of magic long forbidden. Few ventured there anymore. Fewer returned.
By midday, the road narrowed into a forest path, thick with ash trees and thorned undergrowth. Birds didn't sing here. The only sound was the crunch of their boots and the soft breath of the wind through skeletal branches.
"What did the flame-readers do?" Elara asked at last, breaking the hush.
Raphael glanced over his shoulder. "They were guides. Keepers of balance. They didn't just use fire—they listened to it. Spoke with it. Read the future in the way embers moved, the past in smoke trails."
"And now?"
"Now?" His voice dropped. "Now they're hunted. Just like you."
She glanced down at her hands. They still bore faint scorch marks from last night. The fire had listened. But it hadn't forgotten how dangerous she was when she lost control.
"How did you know them?" she asked.
Raphael didn't answer for a long while. Then: "Because I was one of them. Once."
Elara blinked. "You were a flame-reader?"
"No. But my brother was."
There was something raw in his voice then. Something sharp enough to cut.
"He died when the Order found him. Burned his own heart before they could take it."
Elara swallowed the rising lump in her throat. "I'm sorry."
"He wasn't," Raphael said. "He died free."
The trees began to thin as twilight approached. On the horizon, jagged mountains pierced the clouds like broken spears—dark, ominous, and crowned with snow. Somewhere within those spires lay Solrath Keep.
But before they could get close, a sound cracked through the dusk.
Hooves. Fast. Not one. Many.
Raphael froze. "Off the road. Now."
They ducked into the trees, cloaks pulled tight. Elara grabbed Tarin's hand and pressed him against a thick trunk, her heartbeat drumming in her ears.
A group of riders thundered past. Seven of them. All cloaked in black. And beneath their hoods—
Silver masks.
Tarin whimpered, burying his face into her side. Elara held him close.
Then one of the riders stopped.
He turned his head, slowly, the metal glinting beneath the dying light. And for a moment, she swore he was looking straight at her.
Her breath caught.
The rider lifted his hand. On it, a pendant. Black stone.
The fire in her blood stirred violently.
Then he turned, kicked his horse, and vanished into the trees with the others.
Only after their hoofbeats had faded did Elara breathe again.
"They know," she whispered.
Raphael nodded grimly. "They're heading for the Keep."
Elara clenched her fists. "Then we get there first."
"But we can't outrun them with Tarin," he said.
"We won't outrun them," she said. "We'll outfight them."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're ready for that?"
She looked out toward the mountains, the air thick with ash and danger.
"No," she said. "But I will be."
And behind her, unnoticed, the embers in the hearth they had left behind glowed hot—then vanished.