The flame had returned—but light always cast shadows.
While Iralith buzzed with renewal, in the distant continent of Theryn, where the stars hung low and the land pulsed with deep magic, something stirred.
A black obelisk rose from beneath the sea, cracked open by the same pulse that reignited the Heart of the Flame. At its summit, a symbol glowed—the mark of an order thought extinguished: the Ashbound, remnants of Flameborn exiles who had rejected the balance and fled into myth.
Within the obelisk, a woman sat chained in a prison of silence and sleep. Her hair was silver-fire, and her eyes opened for the first time in a thousand years.
"Ember Solara…" she whispered, though her voice had not yet been heard. "So… you lived."
Back in Iralith, Ember felt a sudden pull—like gravity twisted sideways, like a cold breath across the flame of her soul. She turned from the Circle and walked the hall alone, her hand brushing the ancient walls.
"Something's changed," she murmured.
Eryssa joined her. "The flame echoes through everything now. You're tied to it. If anything awakens, you'll feel it."
"And I just did," Ember said, staring toward the distant horizon. "There's something old still watching us. Something that remembers fire… but not warmth."
Lysra soon confirmed the worst: a distant power surge, unlike the Core's. It didn't hum. It howled.
"We lit a beacon," Orin said grimly. "But beacons attract more than just hope."
Ember nodded. "Then we must become more than keepers. We must be guardians."
Far beyond the flames of Iralith, the Ashbound began to move.
The next storm was already rising.