The fire flickered low in the abandoned chapel where Seraphina had taken refuge. Cracked stained-glass windows cast colored fragments of light across the floor—blue, crimson, gold. She sat on the edge of a rotting pew, hand clenched around the pendant at her throat. The one thing she hadn't discarded from the Dominion days.
Not because of loyalty.
But because it pulsed.
Not always—but now, especially now—since she'd used the magic again.
The golden flame had been buried deep within her since the war. A gift—or a curse—from the vial she shattered to end the Council's reign. It was supposed to be gone. She thought she had cast the darkness out along with it.
But it whispered.
Even now, with the wind howling outside and the scent of ash and blood still clinging to her coat, it whispered.
"You needed me."
Her jaw clenched.
"You would've died without me."
A low hiss rose from the shadows. Her hand snapped to her sword, but no threat emerged.
Only her own reflection in the broken mirror.
Eyes—her eyes—but ringed faintly in amber. Not natural. Not human.
Seraphina stood abruptly, kicking over the bench. The crash echoed off ancient stone and cracked marble. A flock of crows burst from the rafters, startled.
She didn't care.
She needed air.
Outside, the dawn light barely touched the sky. Fog rolled through the trees like a living thing, curling between gravestones and fallen statues.
She breathed it in slowly.
It didn't help.
By midmorning, she returned to Duskwatch. The villagers watched her differently now. Not with reverence. Not even fear.
Distance.
Like they sensed something shifting in her.
As she crossed the square, she caught a whisper: "She burned him. Didn't even use her blade."
Another: "I saw it with my own eyes. Her hands were glowing. Like… like the stories."
She stopped in front of the blacksmith's.
A child peeked at her from behind a barrel. Wide-eyed. Curious.
Afraid.
Seraphina knelt down. "You don't have to be scared," she said softly.
The boy hesitated, then whispered, "Are you one of them?"
A chill passed through her.
"One of what?"
He pointed to the forest. "The ones that shimmer. Mama says they're monsters now. That they used to look like people."
Seraphina nodded slowly. "No. I'm not one of them."
But she wasn't quite who she used to be either.
That night, she dreamed.
She was back in the ruins of the Crimson Hall—walls burning, the ground trembling. The bodies of nobles strewn across the marble floor. In her hand, the broken vial glowed. Voices screamed—some in fear, others in worship.
And above them all, one voice—clearer than the rest.
"You carry the light of annihilation, child."
She turned.
A woman stood in the flames—ageless, eyes like obsidian glass. Lips crimson. Hands dripping with dark ichor.
Seraphina raised her sword.
The woman only smiled.
"You think yourself savior. But you were always the beginning of something darker."
She woke in sweat, the scar on her forearm burning. The same one she earned when she shattered the vial. It hadn't ached in months.
Until now.
Seraphina sat up, eyes scanning the shadows around her. The chapel was empty. Still. But the pendant at her neck thrummed with heat.
A warning.
She rose and pushed open the door.
Only to find the Shadow Broker waiting for her beneath the moonlight.
He was perched on a crumbling gravestone, gloved hands folded, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of his hood.
"Troubled dreams?" he asked, voice velvet-smooth.
Seraphina didn't answer.
He tilted his head. "The light within you is stirring. That's to be expected."
Her brow furrowed. "You knew this would happen."
"I suspected," he said. "When one drinks from the well of prophecy, they are never truly dry again."
Seraphina stepped forward, fists clenched. "What am I becoming?"
"Not becoming," the Broker said, sliding from the stone. "Revealing. You were born of two legacies—warrior and vessel. One cannot live without the other now."
"And the visions?" she asked. "The voices?"
"Echoes of what lies ahead. The vial you shattered did not destroy its essence. It awakened it. You carry a part of it now—light forged in darkness. And it is calling."
"To what?"
He met her gaze, and for the first time, Seraphina thought she saw a flicker of genuine emotion behind those unreadable eyes.
"To finish what the Elders started."
She returned to Duskwatch one last time before leaving. The village was quieter than usual. A funeral was being held for the blacksmith's son, who had vanished and never returned. His mother refused to bury an empty coffin. But the people needed closure.
Seraphina stood in silence as they laid stones over the memorial pyre.
She didn't say a word.
Afterward, the old man from the inn approached her again. His hands trembled slightly as he passed her a sealed scroll.
"What is this?"
"I saw you in the fire," he said. "You'll go north, to the Hollow Spire. This will help you cross safely. Old wards. Hidden paths."
She stared at him. "How did you know?"
"I've seen many lifetimes, girl," he rasped. "Yours will not end here. But it may end there."
She left before dusk.
As she rode away from Duskwatch, the forest fell behind her. The road ahead twisted toward the spire of mountains where the old Dominion lore said the First Flame was hidden. The place where the prophecy began.
Her hands trembled around the reins.
Not from fear.
From power.
It pulsed through her now, constant—unseen but undeniable.
Not all light heals. Some light burns.
She was beginning to understand what kind of flame lived inside her.
And the world wasn't ready for it.
But war was stirring again.
And this time, she wouldn't run from what she was becoming.
She would wield it.