The snowfall came early.
Flakes drifted like ash from the pale sky, coating the ruins of the outpost we'd claimed just days ago. It had been a fortress once—before the Empire turned it into a holding pen for dissenters. Now it was ours, though every stone still whispered of screams.
I stood at the edge of the crumbling battlements, watching the horizon. The mountains loomed far beyond the eastern woods, a jagged reminder of the barrier we hadn't yet crossed. Somewhere beyond them was the capital's heart. The true seat of the Crown.
Lily joined me in silence. Her coat was too thin for the cold, but she didn't shiver. Her breath plumed in the air.
"We lost too many in the last raid," she said.
I didn't answer immediately.
"I know."
She looked at me, studying my face like she could read thoughts before they turned to words. "You haven't slept."
"I'll sleep when it's over."
"That's what you said last week."
"And it's still true."
Behind us, the others were stirring—Kael arguing with Garran about defense rotations, Lyra whispering chants under her breath, eyes rolled back in some vision-state. The Whispered Flame was still alive, but barely. Our numbers were stretched thin.
A voice crackled from the rune stone communicator beside me.
"Incoming message from the Pale Ridge outpost. It's him."
My stomach tightened.
I picked up the stone.
"This is Ash."
A voice came through—raspy, half-choked. Bruk. "They found us. They—they have a new weapon. It burns inside. We can't hold—"
The sound twisted into a scream. Then silence.
Lily's hand gripped my arm. Her face was white.
"They're moving faster than we thought," I said.
She nodded. "And they're changing the rules."
I turned toward the others. "We're not waiting anymore. We strike tonight."
Kael looked up. "You mean the forge?"
"No," I said. "The Crown's mouthpiece. Lord Castellan. He's in the Ember Spire. If we kill him, we break their voice."
Silence. Then Garran nodded.
"Then let's sharpen our blades."
The Ember Spire rose above the city like a needle of obsidian, impossibly smooth, untouched by time or war. No windows. No doors at its base. Just wards—dozens of them—flickering like dying stars in a ring of red light.
We stood on the rooftop of a shattered cathedral across the chasm that split the city's old quarter. The moon cast a dull sheen over broken statues and torn banners below. Our breath froze midair.
Garran laid the plans across a stone slab. "There's a pulse line running beneath the Spire—feeds it power from the deep wells. If we can overload it, we might collapse the wards."
Lyra traced her finger along the map. "The ritual to do that will take time. I need a focus. And a song that cuts beneath stone."
Lily stepped forward. "I'll sing."
Kael snorted. "Of course you will."
She shot him a look that could peel bark. "You got a better voice?"
Kael shut up.
I checked my gear—two knives, one shortblade, three flamerunes, and the curved dagger Garran called Widow's Breath. It drank light and reflected nothing. A gift from a dying resistance cell in the south.
"When do we move?" I asked.
"Now," Garran said. "Before dawn hits and the Spire seals its shell again."
Lyra handed me a shard etched with fire script. "If the song starts to fail, shatter this near the base. It'll buy a few seconds of raw disruption. Use them well."
"Understood."
The descent from the cathedral was silent. We moved in shadows, crossed bridges lined with broken cannons and rusted chains. The closer we came to the Spire, the quieter the city became—like even the air didn't want to breathe here.
When we reached the circle of wards, Lyra knelt in the snow and began her chant.
Lily's voice joined hers—soft at first, then rising. A song of mourning, of rebellion, of fire.
The first ward sputtered.
I gripped my blade.
Then the second ward died.
And the sky began to bleed.
Red light pulsed like a heartbeat as the third ward collapsed. I could feel the heat building—not fire, but pressure. Magic forced into unnatural shapes. The Spire groaned as the next ring of defense flickered.
Lyra's chanting took on a harsher tone. Sweat gleamed on her brow despite the cold. Lily's voice cracked once, then steadied.
We had seconds now.
Kael moved first. "I'll take the left flank."
"No," I said. "Stay with Lyra. I'm going in alone."
Garran grunted. "Stupid."
"Maybe. But we don't get second chances tonight."
I dashed across the melting snow, each step a drumbeat in my chest. The final ward cracked like glass as I passed beneath it, and the shadows swallowed me.
Inside, the Spire was wrong.
Not empty. Not full. Just… echoing. Like it remembered voices that hadn't existed yet.
I crept through the dark corridors, guided only by the pull of heat and fury that pulsed from deeper within. The architecture bent in ways that defied stone. Walls curved without reason. Doors led to ceilings.
Then I found him.
Lord Castellan.
He stood beneath a skylight of black glass, hands clasped behind his back, cloak trailing like a shadow. Tall. Thin. Not armored—but armored in presence.
"I wondered when you'd arrive," he said, without turning.
I raised Widow's Breath.
"No speech?" he asked. "No grand proclamation?"
I didn't answer.
He turned. His eyes were pale green, almost white. Not blind—worse. Empty.
"You are the fire, then," he said. "The spark the Crown failed to drown."
I moved.
Our blades met with a crack.
His was not steel. Not magic. It was will forged into form. My hand trembled as I blocked the second strike.
"You don't understand," he said, voice calm. "This world does not fear death. It fears change."
I snarled and broke his stance. Flames surged from my hand.
He stepped through them.
And drove his fist into my gut.
The world blinked sideways.
Pain pulsed through my ribs as I hit the floor. My breath caught, stolen by the force of the blow. Lord Castellan didn't press the attack—he stood above me, eyes impassive, as though he was watching something old and inevitable.
"You carry the fire well," he said. "But fire consumes. Always."
I rolled away, just as his next strike splintered the marble where I'd lain. I rose, blade drawn, and flung a flare rune at his chest. It ignited midair, exploding into light.
He vanished into smoke.
I spun around—too late.
His hand wrapped around my throat, lifting me.
"You should've run, Ash."
I choked. My rune flared to life, searing against his grip. He hissed, dropping me. I hit the floor hard, rolled, came up slicing.
The dagger carved through his coat, but not skin. Whatever he was—he was more than man now.
"You can't kill me," he said. "You can only delay me."
"Then I'll delay you forever."
I dove in again, this time channeling everything—flame, rage, memory—into my strikes. Each hit sparked as if the air itself rejected him. And then—finally—he staggered.
His foot slipped. I kicked his knee, twisted, and slammed Widow's Breath into his side.
He gasped.
Light spilled from the wound. Not blood. Light.
He stumbled back, gaze wide for the first time.
"What did you—"
The dagger drank deeper.
Castellan screamed.
The Spire shuddered. Cracks raced up its walls like veins of lightning.
Outside, Lyra's chant reached a crescendo. The sky turned gold.
I backed away as Lord Castellan crumbled—first to one knee, then into ash. The dagger fell with a soft clink.
Silence reigned.
I turned and ran.
Back through the breaking tower, through warped halls and falling stone. Every breath burned. But I ran.
When I burst into the night, the Spire collapsed behind me in a roar of fire and light.
Lily caught me.
"You did it."
I nodded, too breathless to answer.
The others gathered, battered but alive. Kael was bleeding from his arm. Garran limped. Lyra looked like she'd aged a decade.
But we'd done it.
The voice of the Crown had been silenced.
And a new voice—our voice—was rising.
(To be continued...)