The wind was thick with ash. It clung to her cloak, coated her hair, and stung her lips with the taste of ruin. Every step Elara took sank into soil that had once been fertile, now blackened and brittle like shattered glass. The land stretched endlessly in silence — no birds, no rivers, no laughter, only the whisper of a world that had forgotten how to breathe.
The ruined spires of what had once been a city rose around her like the ribs of a colossal beast. Their jagged silhouettes clawed at the sky, skeletal reminders of towers that had once touched the clouds. Now they bent inward, scorched and hollow, blackened by fire that had not been born of men.
Her hand trembled as she adjusted the silver veil across her eyes. She did not need sight to know what surrounded her; she could feel it. The fire in her palms told her. The ember burned always, alive and restless, whispering its warnings into her bones.
Elara had not slept in days. Sleep was dangerous. In sleep, the ember spoke louder. It showed her visions: oceans boiling, forests collapsing into dust, the cries of children swallowed by shadow. And sometimes — worst of all — it showed her herself, standing atop the ashes, fire roaring from her hands as if she had chosen destruction, not salvation.
She tightened her grip on the ember. It pulsed once, then settled, as if mocking her restraint.
A sound broke the silence.
At first, it was faint, like the rustle of parchment. Then it grew sharper, a cry that tore across the horizon — piercing, shrill, unnatural.
Elara froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
From the northern spire, a shadow uncurled itself, massive wings stretching wide. The creature emerged slowly, deliberately, its feathers glistening like shards of obsidian. When its eyes caught the crimson light of the veiled sun above, they burned with hunger.
A Harrowed.
Elara's heart quickened. She had seen drawings of them in ancient texts, warnings scrawled by scholars who had died centuries ago. But seeing one in the flesh was different. Its body was twisted, somewhere between bird and corpse, its talons long enough to tear stone. Its beak dripped black fluid that hissed when it struck the ground.
The ember flared.
Elara lifted her hands, whispering the ancient words that came to her without thought. Sparks leapt between her fingers, crawling along her veins, setting the sigils on her skin aglow. Her breath came heavy as the ember's heat surged into her body.
The Harrowed shrieked again, the sound rattling the bones of the ruined towers. Dust rained down from broken arches. It lunged, claws outstretched.
Elara raised her palm. Fire exploded outward in a blazing arc, striking the creature mid-flight. Its wings ignited, black feathers turning to ash as it crashed into the earth. The ground shuddered from the impact, scattering stones and bones alike.
But it did not die.
With a guttural roar, it clawed its way back to its feet, half-burned but relentless. Its gaze locked onto her — not with anger, but hunger. The Harrowed fed not only on flesh, but on flame.
On her flame.
Elara staggered back, gripping her cloak tighter. The ember pulsed erratically now, as if urging her to unleash more. She could feel its temptation like a whisper in her skull: Burn brighter. Burn hotter. Burn until nothing is left.
"No," she hissed, more to herself than to it. "I am not yours."
The Harrowed lunged again.
This time, Elara dropped low, thrusting her palms upward. The fire leapt like a serpent, coiling around the beast's throat, dragging it sideways into a shattered wall. The stone erupted, collapsing atop the creature.
Silence. Dust. Ash.
Elara fell to her knees, breath ragged. The ember dimmed to a soft glow, though her veins still burned from the power she had summoned.
For a long moment, she knelt there, listening.
Then — from beneath the rubble — came a scrape. A claw dragging against stone.
Elara's blood ran cold.
The Harrowed was still alive.
She rose unsteadily to her feet, gathering what remained of her strength. Her cloak snapped in the bitter wind as she whispered again to the ember, not a plea, but a command.
The flame answered, roaring higher than before.
And in the silence of the wasteland, her voice rang out, clear and defiant:
"I will not burn for you."
The fire surged.
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