The road to the free cities was unsafe, winding through frostbitten passes and shadowed forests where light dared not linger. Days bled into nights without rest. The injured moaned through their bandages, and Lysara's heart broke a hundred times over for every child who looked to her with hollow eyes.
But they pressed on.
On the fifth night, they reached the ancient ruins of Darnath's Gate once a bastion of the old alliance, now a crumbled shell. There, they made camp, hiding beneath its collapsed arches. Captain Thorne caught wild game, and Lysara tended the wounded with herbs she had learned of in girlhood, never thinking she would use them as a fugitive.
It was there she met Nyra.
A cloaked figure approached their camp under cover of mist, stepping through the perimeter spells like they were smoke. Thorne raised his blade, but the woman held up a hand. Her eyes shimmered with starlight, and her voice rang like wind over ice.
"I am not your enemy, Queen of Ash. I come with word from the east."
Lysara stood, dagger hidden in her sleeve. "Who sent you?"
"The Circle is broken," Nyra said. "But not all of its members are dead. One yet lives in Elowen's Hollow, and he waits for you."
Whispers stirred among the survivors.
"The mage?" Thorne asked.
Nyra nodded. "Vaelin. He knows the truth of the shards and the danger Malagar truly poses."
Lysara's breath caught. She had heard tales of Vaelin as a child one of the legendary Circle of Nine, vanished after the crown shattered. If he truly lived, and he had answers, then their cause might yet survive.
"What's the price for your help?" she asked.
Nyra smiled faintly. "Only that you live long enough to fight. Follow me, Queen. Destiny has not forgotten your name. The gods feel like you have more to offer than what you are giving right now."
Lysara looked to Thorne, who gave a reluctant nod.
And so they followed Nyra east, into deeper exile—and toward a flame that had not yet gone out.