The world held its breath.
Ash clung to Nyra's skin like guilt. Behind her, the tunnel had collapsed, sealing off everything they'd left behind—including any chance to turn back.
Aeran limped beside her, eyes darting to her hands.
"Nyra," he said quietly. "You're still burning."
She glanced down.
Shadow-fire still licked her fingers—gentle, almost playful, like it belonged to her.
But it didn't feel right.
"I can't stop it," she murmured. "It won't go away."
A wind passed—dry, strange—and the air whispered:
Come home, Ashborn...
She froze. "Did you hear that?"
Aeran gave her a look. "Hear what?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. The look in her eyes said enough.
---
Somewhere far away…
Beneath a forest of stone trees, a masked prince dropped to one knee before a throne of bones.
"The Ashborn lives," he said simply.
The figure on the throne leaned forward, voice like cracked glass. "Then hunt her down. Before the others reach her."
The prince stood. "She won't even know what hit her."
---
Back in the ruins, Nyra and Aeran stumbled into an old mage tower—half-buried in vines, its windows shattered, but something inside still pulsing with old magic.
Nyra's gaze locked on a cracked mirror in the corner.
"That's it," she breathed.
Aeran frowned. "What?"
"I've seen it before… in my dreams."
Her fingertips brushed the surface.
The mirror lit up instantly.
A girl with silver tears.
A boy drowning in golden light.
A queen screaming in chains.
And then, a voice inside the mirror:
Only one throne may rise. The others must fall.
Nyra gasped and staggered back.
"What the hell was that?" Aeran asked.
"They're real," she whispered. "The thrones. The war. All of it."
---
The tower shook. A growl echoed through the air—low, guttural, hungry.
A creature emerged. All shadows and teeth, eyes burning red. It lunged.
"Nyra!" Aeran shouted. "Burn it!"
Her hands lit up on instinct. Shadow-fire roared from her palms, swallowing the monster in one burst. It shrieked—and vanished.
But the fire didn't stop.
The flame rose higher, swirling around her. A dark crown formed above her head, made entirely of shadow and flame.
Aeran stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
"You... you have a throne."
Nyra stared at her hands, horror creeping up her spine.
"What am I becoming?"
---
Outside, they barely made it into the moonlight when—
Shhhink.
A blade pressed against her throat.
A masked prince stood in front of her, so calm it was chilling. His eyes gleamed behind the mask like a hunter who'd finally cornered prey.
"You're coming with me, Ashborn," he said, voice low. "Or…"
His gaze slid to Aeran.
"…he dies screaming."
Nyra didn't flinch. Not when the blade kissed her throat. Not even when the prince tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
His voice dropped lower, dangerously soft.
"You don't know what's inside you, do you?"
Her fingers twitched, shadow-fire begging to rise. But the prince didn't move.
"Go ahead," he said. "Burn me. See what it awakens."
Aeran made a move, but the prince's sword shifted half an inch toward Nyra's skin.
"I said don't," the prince warned.
Nyra's voice was cold steel. "You know who I am."
"Not just who," he murmured. "What."
The fire inside her flickered.
His mask gleamed in the moonlight, carved with ancient runes—runes she'd only seen in the dream-realm.
He knew things.
Terrible things.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, trying to buy time.
"To the Council of Thrones," he replied. "You've been summoned."
She blinked. "That's a myth."
"So were you."
Then he stepped back and lowered his blade—not out of mercy, but because he knew she'd follow.
And somehow, she did.
---
They traveled in silence. Aeran trailed behind, hand on his dagger, never blinking. The forest grew darker, twisted—trees that seemed to lean in and listen.
Nyra glanced at the prince.
"What's your name?"
He didn't look back. "Names are earned, not given."
She scoffed. "Mysterious. How original."
Still no response.
But his shoulders tensed, just a little. She'd gotten under his skin. Good.
"Why do the Thrones want me?" she asked.
"They don't," he said. "They fear you."
She stopped walking.
The prince did too. He finally turned to face her.
"Do you feel it yet?" he asked.
"Feel what?"
He touched her forehead—just a tap.
And the world shattered.
---
She was falling—no, rising—through fire and mist and stars.
She saw herself crowned in shadow, armies kneeling.
She saw thrones burning.
One by one.
Ash by ash.
And standing at the end of it all… was her.
Only her.
---
She gasped awake. Not in the forest. Not even on the same plane.
A throne room.
Black marble. Crimson sky. Ten Thrones. Empty.
Except one.
Occupied by a girl.
Who looked just like her.
But with golden eyes.
---
"Welcome home, sister," the other Nyra said with a smile that wasn't kind at all.
Nyra stared at the girl—no, the reflection—perched lazily on the dark throne.
Same wild hair. Same sharp eyes. But those golden irises? They weren't hers. They belonged to something older. Something dangerous.
"You're not me," Nyra said, her voice low.
The girl smirked. "Oh, I am. Just... the version you were too afraid to become."
She rose slowly from the throne. Every step she took echoed like a heartbeat in Nyra's skull. "They call me the First Flame. You? You're just the spark."
Nyra clenched her fists. "What is this place?"
"The throne realm," the First Flame replied. "Where rulers are forged. Or broken."
Nyra backed away. The walls pulsed, and shadows began crawling toward her, whispering secrets she didn't want to understand. Names. Titles. Prophecies.
The golden-eyed version tilted her head. "Tell me something, Spark—what will you burn down to survive? Your past?"
She stepped closer.
"Your people?"
Closer.
"Your soul?"
Nyra's breath hitched.
"You're not real."
"Neither were you… until you started killing monsters with magic you didn't earn."
Flames surged around the First Flame's body, forming the shape of a crown that burned without heat. It floated—then split in two.
One half dropped into her hand.
The other shot across the room… and slammed into Nyra's chest.
She screamed.
Fire licked her veins. Her heartbeat roared like thunder. The room melted into smoke—and she was falling again, tumbling through time and shadow and memory.
---
Nyra's eyes snapped open.
She was on the forest floor, drenched in sweat. The masked prince knelt beside her, his face dangerously close.
"You've seen her," he said.
Nyra shoved him back, scrambling to her feet. "What the hell did you do to me?"
"I opened the gate," he said calmly. "Now, she knows you're awake."
"Who knows?"
The sky above cracked with thunder.
The wind carried a single word, whispered across realms:
Ashborn.
The prince stood, sword drawn. "It's started."
"What has?"
He met her eyes. "The Throne War."
---
And just like that, flames erupted from the trees around them—blue, gold, and violent red. Figures stepped through the fire. Clad in relic armor. Holding blades forged from stars.
Each wore a sigil of a throne.
A voice boomed from the treeline.
"By the Order of the Nine, the Ashborn must die."
Aeran stepped forward. "Over my dead body."
The masked prince didn't blink. "That's the plan."
"Over my dead body," Aeran repeated, stepping between Nyra and the fire-forged warriors.
The masked prince didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, assessing the threat with that frustrating calm.
A woman stepped forward from the blazing circle. Her armor shimmered like molten gold, and her voice rolled like thunder over mountains.
"Step aside, Shadowsworn," she told the prince. "You were sent to bring the girl. Not protect her."
"I was sent to bring the Ashborn," he corrected coolly. "I did. No one said she had to arrive unharmed."
The air crackled.
"She's not ready," Aeran whispered to Nyra. "If you use your power now, it'll consume you."
Nyra's heart pounded in her ears. Fire still danced in her veins from the vision. Her palms glowed faintly, shadows coiling around her wrists like living smoke. "I don't have a choice."
"You do," Aeran said quickly, "but not with them. Let me buy you time."
"No." She stepped forward, fire and shadow rippling through her like twin storms fighting for dominance. "No more running."
The woman from the Nine Thrones raised her blade. "Then die standing."
Everything exploded at once.
Lightning split the sky. Aeran lunged forward, his daggers flashing. The prince vanished into smoke. And Nyra—Nyra let go.
Power surged from her chest in a blinding wave, a scream of ancient flame roaring toward the attackers.
The golden warrior raised a shield of light, but it cracked under the force. She was flung backward into a tree, gasping, armor scorched.
Nyra stood at the center of it all, hair billowing, eyes burning with twin flames.
She didn't recognize the voice that came out of her mouth.
"I am not your enemy…"
Everyone froze.
"…not yet."
The ground split beneath her feet. Fire spiraled upward into the sky, and from the flames rose a throne of ash and bone, floating, humming with power.
The forest—no, the whole realm—went silent.
Aeran looked up in horror.
The masked prince looked… amused.
And then the throne whispered her name.
Nyra. Ashborn. Heir of the Forgotten Flame.
She stepped toward it, hand outstretched—drawn by something ancient, something buried in her blood.
But before she could touch it—
An arrow sliced through the air.
Straight toward her heart.