The storm did not break with thunder or rain—it shattered reality with blinding, searing light that split the sky like a scream. At the edge of dawn, the heavens over the Ember Fortress tore apart in silence, casting streaks of gold and black like burning feathers from a celestial wing. The light wasn't natural. It was divine—raw, punishing, and wrong.
Lira stood on the highest spire, her robes still clinging to her from the Emberwake. Her breath caught in her throat as the horizon fractured and pulsed like a wounded beast. The wind howled, not as weather, but as warning.
"What is it?" she asked, voice brittle.
Arion stepped beside her. His expression, normally unreadable, was tight with understanding. "It begins. The descent."
Below, the fortress stirred. Flame Court banners snapped like whips in the air. Kael moved quickly, already shouting orders, his calm cracking just enough to betray urgency. Soldiers scrambled, mages cast shielding spells, and bells sounded the alarm. Eris stood rooted, eyes locked on the sky, her fists clenched so tight that her palms bled where her nails bit.
The first divine strike landed—an arc of black flame smashing into the outer watchtower. It wasn't normal fire. It was memory set ablaze. The stone screamed as it was scorched with echoes of forgotten pain. Lira staggered, her chest clenching as the feeling hit her. Not physical. Deeper.
"They're not sending armies," she said. "They're sending memories."
Arion nodded grimly. "The gods cannot kill you outright. So they'll unmake you from within."
The defenses of the Ember Fortress roared to life. Runes along every corridor surged crimson. Crystalline barriers shimmered to existence. The Order of Sovereigns stood side by side with the Icebound Watch, and even the outlawed Ashbinders summoned by Eris had taken up position. But none of them had ever faced this kind of war.
The war of gods.
And still—Lira did not waver.
In the command chamber beneath the spire, she stood before a floating map made of emberlight and smoke. Cities blinked. Ley lines shimmered. Pressure points pulsed. She moved with certainty, placing markers, redirecting troops, forming not a defense—but an offensive.
"We hold here," she said, her voice low and sure. "But we do not cower. We strike back. Not to win their favor. To remind them what fire is."
Kael stepped forward, brow furrowed. "You're talking about the vaults."
She met his gaze. "No. I'm talking about the gods themselves."
A beat of silence. Then:
Eris smiled, sharp and dangerous. "About time."
The next night, beneath a sky bled dry of stars, Lira led the first counteroffensive.
She wore no armor—only emberglass robes that shimmered like molten glass. Kael rode beside her, his blade drawn and wreathed in pale flame. Eris soared above, wreathed in wings forged from unraveling magic. Arion held the rearguard, a tide of temporal spells warping the battlefield to shield their flank.
But their enemies weren't made of flesh.
They fought illusions—echoes of pain sharpened into blades. The battlefield was a living nightmare: children screaming in burning homes, lovers betraying one another in slow motion, entire cities dying again and again. Grief was the weapon. Memory was the battlefield.
And yet—Lira walked through it, untouched.
Her fire burned blue now. Not hot, but absolute. It did not consume. It cleansed. Her will scoured the illusions and reshaped them. Every step she took was a refusal to forget who she was becoming.
They reached the Skyvault by nightfall—the realm's jagged wound, a stairway of obsidian leading up into the storm-lit veil between worlds.
Lira paused at the base. The wind screamed around her, tearing at her robes. The others fell into formation.
Arion turned to her. "This is your moment. The climb no one has survived. Not mortal. Not god."
She clenched her fists, flame crackling beneath her skin. "Then let the gods remember who they tried to break."
She placed one foot on the first step.
And began to climb.
Above the mortal realm, in the halls of the eternal pantheon, the gods watched her rise. They did not speak at first. Even silence bent before what approached.
Then, a whisper: "What burns cannot kneel."
Another voice—older, cracked with dread: "Then we shall learn what even fire must fear."
They summoned their final weapon.
A memory Lira had never lived.
A lie she would believe.
The last gate opened.
And the war became personal.