The party traveled silently through the Black Marshes, the air heavy with fog and ash. They avoided the main roads. Word was spreading—about the girl with fire in her blood and the night she nearly leveled a mountain bunker.
They had no time to rest. Someone—or something—was hunting them now.
"I smell sulfur," Kael muttered. "And… something else."
Dante's grip tightened on his blade. "We're not alone."
Suddenly, the marsh trembled.
A creature emerged from the muck—tall, skeletal, with limbs like warped steel and eyes like burning coals. Behind it, more emerged. Dozens.
"Wraithforged," Dante growled. "Soulbound assassins."
Elira stepped forward.
"No," Kael warned. "You can't—"
But it was too late. Her body moved on instinct. Flame surged through her as she raised both hands, and her voice thundered with an unfamiliar tone.
"Return to the ashes!"
A spiral of fire erupted from her palms—more refined, more beautiful than before. It wasn't just destruction—it was artistry. The Wraithforged screamed as they melted into smoke.
Kael stared in awe.
"She's becoming something else…"
Elira collapsed, exhausted.
But one Wraith remained. It didn't attack. Instead, it knelt.
"Elira of the First Flame," it rasped. "She waits for you. In the Citadel of Emberfall."