When the world reassembled around Velastra, she landed hard on uneven stone. Her knees scraped, palms bloodied, and lungs burning from the exertion of forced travel. The magic had nearly torn her apart this time, and it deposited her without warning into a city she'd never seen before.
The streets pulsed with life—immortals and mortals alike winding through markets and alleys beneath a sky choked with smoke and golden haze. Lanterns floated from rooftops like burning stars. Children ran barefoot, trailing fireflies behind them. Traders barked out their prices, and robed scholars wove through the crowd like ghosts from another age.
Velastra stumbled forward, disoriented.
A man brushed past her, and she caught his arm.
"Where… where am I?" she asked, breathless.
The man turned, eyes kind, though tired. "You're in Sinay. Capital of the South Flame provinces."
Sinay.
The word hit her like a thunderclap.
Heart leaping, she whispered, "Whose reign?"
The man blinked, as though surprised by the question. "Reign of the Ash-Seer. King Orren."
Velastra's blood froze.
Her grandfather.
That meant...
Her thoughts snapped like lightning.
The Soul-Watcher.
Could it be her grandmother?
Without another word, Velastra turned and pushed into the crowd, ignoring startled glances as she shoved her way through the maze of people. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
She remembered stories of her grandmother—a woman both feared and revered, keeper of secrets and guide to the dead. If anyone could be the Soul-Watcher, it would be her.
The palace. She had to get to the palace.
But as she rounded corner after corner, following her instincts through half-remembered dreams, something gnawed at her gut.
There was no palace.
Nothing rose above the city's skyline but towers of ashstone and charred bridges spanning the wide canals. No banners. No flame-crowned gates. No thrones.
She stopped, breath catching.
Confused, she approached a slow-moving figure—an old immortal, wrapped in robes that shimmered with faint runes. Her face was lined with wisdom and age that had not been kind to her.
"Please," Velastra said. "How can I meet the king?"
The woman didn't turn. Her voice was quiet, but her words struck like cold steel.
"You cannot meet the king. Not unless you are summoned."
Velastra stared. "Then how do I get summoned?"
This time, the woman's gaze flicked to her with the weight of truth and cruelty in equal measure.
"If you must be killed."
The words hit like ice water.
Velastra stood there for a long time after the woman walked away.
Killed.
Was that the only way to be seen in this realm?
Despair clawed at her throat, but she refused to drown in it. She could not die. Not truly. She had made a vow—not just to herself, but to Cael, to Orion, to the oaths they all carried in silence and blood.
But she needed the king's eyes.
She needed to draw him—her grandfather—out of the shadows.
And then she remembered.
---
A memory...
She was young, already in her second ember-cycle; in immortal age, she was thirteen, in mortal time, she is one hundred thirty. They stood beneath a canopy of smoke-colored leaves, the courtyard of Ashhall bathed in violet dusk. Her grandfather, tall and robed in silver fireweave, stood barefoot on the training stones.
"Not every war is fought in chaos," Orren had said, "and not every blade must spill blood to be heard."
He held no sword then, only air. But the temperature around him shifted.
"Breathe with the flame. Move with its rhythm. Not to kill—but to draw every eye."
She'd watched, rapt, as he spun through the ancient Oathflame Blade Dance called- SWAY OF THE ASHVEIL, an art known for its destructive beauty but also weakens the owner's spirit if not performed well.
Each step shimmered with deadly heat. The air warped around him, growing hotter and hotter until the leaves above their heads shriveled from their branches.
"It is a blade only those with purpose may wield," he had told her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders.
"One day, if your sword can no longer cut—this is how you remind the world of who you are."
---
Velastra blinked back to the present.
The crowd moved as though the world had not shifted. But inside her, something had reawakened.
She stepped into the open center of the market square, where performers often danced or hawkers held their wares for auction. People stopped and stared as she unsheathed her sword—a long, curved flame-forged relic, too ceremonial for war, but perfect for ritual.
She inhaled.
Exhaled.
And began the Ashveil Dance.
At first, it was silent.
Her blade carved slow arcs through the air, catching firelight in a rhythmic spiral. Her body moved with graceful precision—shoulders fluid, hips anchored, feet gliding in tight circles. Each movement drew heat from the stones beneath her, feeding the air.
And then the wind shifted.
The temperature changed.
The flame in every nearby torch guttered, bending toward her. A haze formed around her blade as the metal glowed—red, then gold, then white-hot.
People began to gather.
Someone whispered, "It's getting hotter."
Cautious mothers pulled back children. The guards looked on, wary and unsure if this was a rebellion or an invocation.
Still, she danced.
Her muscles screamed.
Sweat poured down her back, but she didn't stop. Her breath came in harsh gasps, but she kept moving—each strike more precise, more radiant. The heat became unbearable. A nearby vendor's stall burst into flame.
And in that moment, her blade curved skyward, stopping at the peak of her arc.
The air cracked.
And from the far side of the city, bells rang.
Not alarm bells.
Summoning bells.
The kind is used only for one thing.
A royal audience.