The obsidian mirror hummed with a heatless pulse as Elira stood trapped in the pitch-dark chamber. She reached out—and the moment her fingers grazed the glass, the world vanished.
---
🔥 A Memory Not Her Own
Elira stood barefoot in an ancient battlefield soaked in ash and starlight. All around her, figures danced in a ring of fire—eyes glowing gold, fire leaping from their hands in arcs of glory and fury.
At the center stood a woman with hair like molten metal and a crown of flame hovering above her head. Her voice thundered in Elira's bones.
> "We were called the First Flame. Keepers of the balance. Until they feared us."
Suddenly, arrows of light rained from the sky. The flame-wielders screamed. Chains bound their arms. Magic bled into the earth like ink.
> "One of our own betrayed us to the Crown."
Elira gasped. "Who?"
The woman turned. Her eyes… were Elira's.
> "You must choose, Flameborn: to reign, or to burn."
---
Elira dropped to her knees in the temple chamber, breath heaving. The mirror had gone dark. But something had awakened in her — a second heartbeat, a warmth in her spine.
She stood slowly. "I don't want to rule," she whispered. "I just want to be free."
But the flame inside her murmured back:
> Then you must first set fire to what holds you.
---
As she exited the temple, she wasn't alone.
A group of figures in black cloaks emerged from the trees—armed, fast, and silent. One of them lowered their hood.
Not guards. Not hunters.
> "You walked through the mirror?" the leader asked.
Elira nodded cautiously. "Why?"
He smiled grimly.
> "Because only a true Flameborn can. The rebellion has been waiting for you."
---
Lady Seraphine paced before the throne.
> "She is gathering allies," she warned the Council.
"The last time the Flameborn united the lowborn, a kingdom fell."
Auren, hidden behind the pillar, clenched his fists. He had heard enough.
He turned and slipped into the shadows. If Elira was calling fire to her side—he would be the one to carry her wind.