The smoke parted like a curtain, revealing a hidden valley scorched black and rimmed with jagged obsidian cliffs. Trees stood like burnt statues, twisted and leafless. And in the center of it all—a structure rose from the ashes.
A temple.
Not one of stone or wood, but of something older. Its walls shimmered with shifting patterns, as if made of living glass. Etchings moved across its surface like fire trapped beneath ice.
Mara stepped cautiously into the valley. The crystal at her neck pulsed brighter, tugging her forward like it recognized this place.
As she neared the temple, she felt the air shift.
Warmer.
Heavier.
Alive.
Then came the sound—soft at first, like wind through leaves. But there were no leaves here. It grew louder, rising like a chorus of whispers.
Not memories.
Not guilt.
Voices. Real ones.
The Ashborn.
They emerged from the black trees—tall, cloaked in smoke, eyes glowing faintly amber. Their skin looked like cooled lava: cracked, glowing beneath. They surrounded her, silent, watching.
Mara stood her ground.
"I'm not here to harm you," she said, holding up the shard. "I was sent. My mother—she told me to come north. To find the truth."
One of them stepped forward. A woman, taller than Mara, her voice low and echoing.
"You carry a shard of the Ember Heart," she said. "Only one of blood may bear it without burning."
Mara's throat tightened. "Blood?"
The woman nodded. "You are Ashborn… and not. Bound by fire, but born of flesh."
The other figures murmured, voices blending like wind in dry grass.
"Your world is ending," the woman continued. "The Ember Sky is no curse—it is a warning. The heart of the flame has awakened. And if left unclaimed, it will consume everything."
Mara stepped back. "I don't understand."
"You will. The Heart calls to its heir. And you… are the last."
Behind them, the temple doors creaked open. A warmth like sunlight poured through.
The Ashborn parted.
And Mara—heart pounding—stepped inside.
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