They journeyed north.
The Hollow Hills were behind them now, but the weight of what Lyra had seen lingered like smoke on her skin. The girl in the vision haunted her dreams—eyes of molten gold, fire licking at her feet, her voice faint but urgent.
Kael noticed the shadows under Lyra's eyes as they walked. "You haven't said much since we left the circle."
"She's real," Lyra murmured, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. "The girl in the vision. She's trapped. Somewhere north. I felt her pain."
"Another moon-called?" Kael asked.
Lyra nodded. "But she's different. Powerful. Broken. Like something went wrong."
Kael frowned. "Then we'll find her before it happens again."
They followed the path of scorched trees and dried rivers, moving through lands once fertile, now faded. Signs of moon-sickness were everywhere—blighted plants, cracked soil, and animals with glowing eyes that watched from the brush.
The forest eventually gave way to open plains, and in the distance, the peaks of the northern firelands loomed—smoldering ridges where the air shimmered with heat even under moonlight.
It was there, near the base of those volcanic cliffs, that they found the ruins.
The village had been reduced to ashes.
Stone homes collapsed inward. Burned bones littered the streets. Charred symbols were scrawled on walls, crude imitations of the sacred runes Lyra had spent her life studying.
She knelt near a blackened hearth and touched the scorched ground.
Visions swirled instantly—screams, flame, and golden eyes.
"She was here," Lyra whispered.
Kael knelt beside her. "What happened?"
"She burned them. But not out of hatred." Lyra's hands trembled. "She lost control. They tried to bind her."
"Why?"
Lyra swallowed. "Because she's like me. And they feared her power."
As they searched the wreckage, they found a survivor—a boy, no older than twelve, hiding beneath a collapsed altar.
His skin was pale with ash, and his eyes were wide with terror. When Kael reached for him, he shrank back, crying out.
"No more fire! Please—don't let her come back!"
Lyra gently approached, kneeling down so their eyes met. "You're safe now," she whispered. "We're not here to hurt you."
The boy blinked. "You… you glow like she did."
Lyra nodded. "I need to find her. Can you tell me where she went?"
He hesitated, then slowly pointed toward the smoking mountain ridge. "The Ember Spire. She went there. The moon screamed. The ground cracked. She said she had to hide—before they found her again."
"Who's they?" Kael asked.
The boy shivered. "The Crimson Cloaks. They came after the fire. Said she belonged to them."
Lyra's blood ran cold.
"Crimson Moon cultists," she murmured. "They're hunting the moon-called."
Kael's expression darkened. "Then we're running out of time."
They made their way toward the Ember Spire.
The journey became harsher. Ash thickened in the air. The heat was suffocating. Lyra used her moonlight to cool their path, weaving soft veils of light that shimmered like falling snow.
As they climbed the ridge, a distant cry broke through the smoke.
Not human.
A song, full of pain and fury.
Lyra's heart nearly stopped. "That's her."
They ran.
Through crumbled stone and rising steam, they reached a clearing scorched by magic. In the center stood a girl with hair of flaming red, her arms outstretched, her body surrounded by a vortex of golden fire.
Her eyes were wild.
She didn't see them.
She didn't see anything.
The fire lashed around her, ripping through the ground, searing the rocks. And behind her—emerging from the smoke—figures in crimson robes, blades drawn, chanting in a twisted language.
"She's going to destroy everything," Kael said.
"No," Lyra whispered. "She's trying not to."
Lyra stepped forward, raising her staff. "Stop!"
The fire snapped toward her—but just before it struck, it curved. Spared her.
The girl's eyes locked on Lyra's, wide with recognition. "You… you're like me."
"Yes," Lyra said. "I see you. I hear your song. You're not alone anymore."
The girl's flames faltered—but the Crimson Cloaks surged forward.
Kael met them, blade flashing. "I've got them—go to her!"
Lyra pushed through the heat, stepping into the fire.
The pendant on her chest glowed furiously.
She took the girl's hands.
And she sang.
A duet. Light and fire. Pain and healing.
The winds died. The flames slowed. The girl's body shuddered—then collapsed into Lyra's arms, trembling and whispering.
"My name is Nyra," she wept. "And I was never meant to be alone."