The obsidian blade clashed with Elira's fire, and the world exploded in silence.
No scream. No shout. Only the sound of energy meeting its opposite—a hiss like steam tearing flesh.
The masked figure moved with inhuman precision, its sword drawing arcs of void through the air. Elira ducked and rolled, flames bursting from her palms in twin lashes. One struck the trees, igniting dead wood. The other struck the figure's cloak—and fizzled.
> It doesn't burn, she realized. It absorbs.
The Order had not come to fight with swords. They came to extinguish.
Behind her, Auren burst through the trees, sword drawn.
> "Fall back!"
> "No!" she shouted. "We can't run from this forever!"
The figure lunged. Auren parried the obsidian blade just in time—but the impact sent him skidding. His armor sizzled where it had been touched.
Elira stepped forward, her hands blazing brighter than before. Her eyes glowed gold.
> "You want the Flameborn?" she snarled. "Come take her."
The masked figure hesitated.
Then… vanished.
---
Back in Southwatch, the air reeked of soot and unease. Elira and Auren returned to find the war council gathered—and blood on the stones.
A young scout, barely seventeen, lay on the table. His chest bore a blackened symbol—a spiral of flame inverted.
> "They marked him," Garran said grimly. "Left him alive long enough to deliver a warning. He died minutes ago."
Elira stared at the mark. Her magic recoiled from it.
> "It's not just power," she whispered. "It's memory. They're rewriting what fire is."
The council erupted in argument. Should they stay in Southwatch? Should they evacuate? Strike the capital now?
Auren met Elira's gaze.
> "We need more than fire. We need something they don't understand."
---
That night, Elira walked alone into the forge district. She found Mira—the blind old weaver who had once spoken of "threads of fate."
> "You saw this coming, didn't you?"
> "Not this," Mira rasped. "But something like it. You carry more than a spark, child. You carry a question."
> "What question?"
> "Whether you are flame to guide… or to consume."
Mira reached into the fire beside her loom. Instead of burning, her fingers emerged with a glowing thread of gold.
> "The past answers little. But maybe this will."
She pressed the thread into Elira's palm. It pulsed—warm, ancient.
> "A tether," Mira said. "To those who carried the fire before you. But be warned—what you see may change you."
Elira held the thread tightly.
She was ready.
---
Author's Note:
The Obsidian Flame does not just fight—they unmake. As Elira reaches deeper into her legacy, what truth will she uncover? And will it come in time to save the rebellion?
Vote with Power Stones and add The Crown's Curse – A Flame Meant to Burn the Throne to your library. Every vote keeps Elira's flame alive.
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