The Black Tower stood apart from the rest of Theralune's castle — like it had been built by another kingdom, for another purpose. No windows. No light. Just stone, iron, and silence thick as ash.
Inside, Elira sat on cold stone, shackled at the ankles, her wrists marked with rune-burns.
> "You're afraid of me," she whispered to the empty dark.
"You should be."
The shadows did not answer.
But something else did.
> "The flame does not ask permission to burn."
A voice. Low. Male. Not Auren. Not a guard. It came from the other side of the wall — or perhaps from her mind.
> "Who's there?" she hissed, standing.
Chains rattled. Her magic stirred beneath her skin — faint, like a dying ember — but still alive.
> "You are not the first fire-born to rot in this tower."
"But you may be the last."
---
🕯️ Meanwhile, above the court...
Prince Auren stormed into the Queen's war chamber, his cloak trailing ash from the still-burning council hall.
> "You locked her away without trial," he snapped.
"That girl saved my life more than once. She deserves answers, not a dungeon."
Queen Rhianna didn't flinch.
> "She deserves to live long enough to understand what's inside her," she said coldly. "The fire that killed Councilor Darion today was not hers — not entirely."
> "What are you talking about?"
She turned slowly. Her eyes were hard.
> "We sealed that tower a century ago, Auren. For a reason. That fire you saw today wasn't just magic. It was a curse. Older than her. Older than me."
Auren froze.
> "You think she's... possessed?"
> "No. Worse. I think something ancient has chosen her. And when it wakes fully..."
She let the silence finish her sentence.
🔒 Back in the tower...
The whisper returned. Closer this time.
> "Do you want to know the truth, Elira?"
She closed her eyes.
"Yes."
"Then bleed. Not from pain. From choice."
Her palm tingled. Her mark — the crescent birthmark on her hand — glowed faintly blue, like moonlight on water. Against every instinct, she dragged it across the iron shackle. Blood met rune.
The wall shuddered.
A door appeared, not physical — but made of flame and memory.
"Step through, girl of ash."
---
She did.
And found herself no longer in a prison.
But in a vision.
A memory.
A battlefield made of flame and bone. And at the center, a woman who looked exactly like her — only older, crowned in fire, her eyes glowing like suns.
"You are the last of us," the woman said.
"And the curse they fear is not a curse at all. It is your inheritance.