Ian watched her approach with that same calm, unreadable stare.
And nodded.
She'd earned her name today. Again.
The Crucible, it seemed, would never run out of shadows.
But neither would it run out of fire.
———
The council convened at dusk.
The Hall of the Flame was quieter than usual.
Normally, torches lining the dark walls crackled with restless fire, their light dancing across old stone. But tonight, even flame seemed to burn low.
Outside, remnants of the Crucible remained, people still roared—cheers, laughter, rembering the clash of steel—but here, silence pressed heavy against every brick.
Dust shimmered through waning beams of amber light that fell from the stained-glass dome overhead. Its ancient design—a broken crown above a city wreathed in fire—bathed the room in blood-colored hues.
Ian sat at the head.
