Veil of the Firstborn Part 4

Snow drifted in lazy spirals through the dead forest as Vaelin and Elira followed the worn path that twisted toward the high ridge of Wyrmcliff. The trees here were ancient, blackened as though scorched by some long-dead fire, and none bore leaves. Even in the deep silence of the wild, something in the air felt taut—like an arrow nocked but not loosed.

Elira held her cloak tighter as wind bit against her. Since retrieving the Shard of the Firstborn, her connection to the phoenix-bound magic inside her had deepened, but so had the strain. The relic hummed softly within Vaelin’s satchel, occasionally sparking with threads of gold. They had left the temple with more questions than answers—chief among them: why was the Shard calling her?

“It’s watching,” she murmured.

Vaelin, scanning the cliffside ahead, didn’t look back. “The Shard?”

“No,” she said. “Something older.”

They reached the ridge by dusk. From the edge, the land sloped steeply into a basin where the ruined fortress of Emberwatch brooded. Once a sanctuary of the Flame Pact, it had been abandoned when the Firstborn wars fractured the elemental Orders. Now only the broken spires stood, half-submerged in frost.

Elira’s breath caught. A line of torches flickered along the inner battlements. Figures moved in unnatural synchrony.

“Cultists?” Vaelin asked.

She squinted, frowning. “No. Something worse. Those are Flamebound—former Pactbearers. Once like me.”

Elira led them through the mountain pass with cautious steps, her soul-magic rippling along the ground to avoid hidden snares. The entrance to Emberwatch yawned open like the mouth of a dead god. Inside, the fortress stank of scorched stone and sulfur.

They didn’t make it far before the welcome arrived.

From the ruined archway, a dozen figures emerged—hooded, armored, eyes glowing with emberlight. At their center stood a woman draped in molten gold robes, her skin cracked with veins of light. Her voice echoed with unnatural grace.

“Elira Flameborn. Flameheart reborn. You return to the cradle of your power.”

Elira stiffened. “You mistake me.”

“We remember you,” the woman replied. “Your blood ignited the Pact. Your fire cleansed the traitors. You swore to return. You cannot deny the ember oath.”

The cultists stepped aside—and a figure strode forward, twice as tall as a man, his body encased in burning obsidian plate. A warlord, crowned with horns of blackened steel and wielding a blade that pulsed with red fire.

“The Ash-Hand,” Elira whispered. “He was once mortal.”

“He is now flame incarnate,” the priestess said proudly. “He guards the Ember Seal—until the Flameheart kneels.”

Vaelin stepped between them. “We’re not here for oaths.”

“Then you come for war.”

The Ash-Hand roared, and the courtyard ignited.

Vaelin met the charge with steel and instinct. His blade rang against the flaming sword, sparks scattering like meteors. The warlord moved with monstrous speed, each strike charring the stone underfoot. Vaelin dodged narrowly, carving cuts where he could, but the armor reknit with molten light.

“Elira!” he called, breath ragged.

She had already begun. Her hands flared with soul-magic, but not the same soft silver as before. This was molten, unstable, tinged with the phoenix fire that pulsed inside her. She wove a lattice of defensive sigils in the air, absorbing the cultists’ firebolts, then redirected them into arcs of chained flame that lit the battlefield in violent flashes.

The Ash-Hand advanced on her, ignoring Vaelin’s wounds to his side. Elira raised both hands, and the Shard flared in Vaelin’s bag as if pulled toward her.

With a scream that echoed in both realms—physical and soulbound—Elira released the power.

A phoenix-shaped inferno burst from her chest, hurling the Ash-Hand backward into a wall of shattering stone. The cultists fell to their knees, faces turned away.

But Elira collapsed.

Vaelin sprinted to her, cradling her against his chest. Her skin was pale, lips trembling.

“You didn’t tell me it hurt this much,” she whispered.

“You didn’t give me time to argue,” he said hoarsely, brushing hair from her forehead.

Behind them, the priestess rose, burned but alive, eyes wide with reverence.

“You are the one foretold,” she whispered. “But you are not whole.”

Vaelin’s grip on his sword tightened. “Stay back.”

The priestess raised her hands. “The Shard is only a key. The Phoenix Crown lies beyond the seal. If she is to survive, you must take her there.”

Vaelin looked down at Elira, her breath shallow, golden veins crawling across her neck.

Whatever bond the Shard had awakened was consuming her faster now. And the path to salvation lay deeper still.

He stood, lifting her in his arms. “Then show us the way. But if this is a trap, I’ll burn it to ash myself.”

The priestess nodded solemnly, and the cultists parted like shadows before dawn.

As they descended into the catacombs beneath Emberwatch, neither Vaelin nor Elira could say whether they were walking toward salvation... or into the fire that had started all things.

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All Parts of the Series

Veil of the Firstborn Part 1

Veil of the Firstborn Part 2

Veil of the Firstborn Part 3

Veil of the Firstborn Part 4

Veil of the Firstborn Part 5