3 Years Later – Kaelthorn District, Western Helion Outskirts

Smoke hung like a second ceiling in the tavern, curling between flickering lights and dead ventilation fans. The sign outside used to read SHELTER—now it just said SHE and a few scorched letters.

The clocks still read 2151, but time hadn’t mattered since the fire.

Ember sat alone at the bar. Not tucked away, not hiding. Just… there. One seat occupied. The rest empty. Patrons gave her a wide berth—mechanics, runners, Helion grunts pretending not to watch her. No one stared. No one spoke.

They knew better.

She didn’t drink to forget. She drank to feel it slower. Burned glass. Bitter heat. Just enough to dull the world’s edge.

The barkeep slid another glass her way.

She didn’t answer. Just drank.

Sector 9 Lower Lanes

The streets outside were worse. Flickering signs, rusted walls, bloodstained posters peeling into the wind. Ember walked with her hood up, boots silent, eyes low. Her coat swallowed her frame.

Two addicts slumped in a dock. An enforcer pocketed bribes near a broken checkpoint.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t care.

She bought a ration loaf and warm drink without speaking. The vendor didn’t push her this time.

She passed like a ghost.

Lower Verge – En Route Home

Burnt copper hung in the air. Narrow alleys twisted with rust and shadow. Ember moved on instinct.

Then—noise.

A grunt. A scuffle.

She stopped.

“Please! I don’t have anything left!”

A smack. Then silence.

She clenched her fists in her coat.

Not your problem.

She turned her head, hesitating.

Axel’s voice echoed in her memory.

"Live like someone I’d be proud of."

She turned down the alley.

Three teens loomed over a boy. Maybe ten. His bag ripped open. One held a pipe. One laughed. One pinned him down.

“Cry for us, little rat.”

“Should we break a finger first?”

“Back off,” Ember said.

They turned.

The one with the pipe grinned. “What’s this?”

Another twirled a knife. “Wrong alley, freak.”

Ember walked forward, hands still in her pockets.

“Last chance.”

The pipe swung.

She ducked. Slammed him into the wall. Dropped him.

The knife came next—she caught the wrist, twisted, and swept his legs. The blade hit the ground. So did he.

The third ran.

The kid just stared.

Ember didn’t say another word. She turned to leave—until she saw it.

A box. Small. Silver. Warm.

She picked it up.

Alive.

The kid blinked at her.

“Don’t stay here,” she muttered, and walked off.

The box pulsed once in her grip.

Ember’s Shack – 2:47 AM

Home was a rusted husk behind storage tanks. No door. Just a sheet of metal dragged across the entrance.

Inside: a cracked bed. A crate for a table. One broken chair.

And her torchblade—split clean, propped against the wall like a forgotten sin.

She sat.

Pulled the box out.

Opened it.

Inside: a core.

Scorched red. Veins of orange light.

Damaged.

Familiar.

Like a dream she couldn’t name.

She touched it.

The world vanished.

Echo Realm

Fire.

Not burning. Not yet.

She stood in the ruined bunker hallway. Charred walls. Flickering red lights. Distant screams—underwater and warped.

She turned.

And saw herself.

Sixteen. Bloody gloves. Torchblade in hand. Frozen.

No.

The hallway twisted. The scenery shifted.

The armory. The mess. The launch bay.

Memories blurred: celebration, laughter, Axel’s warning—

“They’re inside!”

Flash.

Explosion.

She stood again. Axel ahead of her. Back turned.

“You had a future,” he said.

Flames surged.

She dropped to her knees.

Glass beneath her. Moving memories below:

Her mother’s cloak. Axel. Renna.

Pain.

A voice:

“You’ve seen what you ran from. Now show me what you’ll carry.”

A man stood at the edge of the glass. Cane. Robes. Mirror eyes.

The Narrator.

“Welcome to the flame, Ember Caelis.”

“It never stops burning. But you get to decide if it becomes a fire… or an echo.”

She asked, “What is this?”

“A reflection. Of what broke you.”

“We do not choose our first scar. Only whether we keep hiding.”

He gestured to the glass. “What do you see?”

She looked down.

“Mistakes.”

“No,” he said, tapping the surface. “The pieces you refused to carry.”

She clenched her fists. “So I deserve this?”

“You were never asked to deserve it. Only to survive it.”

Red light cracked beneath her.

“The fire remembers. If you can face it…”

He stepped back.

“…then you’re ready.”

She stood.

One final image rose—Axel at the gate. Holding the line.

“You can walk away,” the Narrator said.

“Or take the weight.”

She stepped forward.

Into the fire.

Back in the Shack

She woke on the floor, gasping.

The box lay open. Empty. Cloth inside scorched.

She sat up.

Her chest ached—not from pain, but pressure.

She pulled her collar down.

A faint sigil glowed on her skin.

Orange. Circular. Four branching veins.

The Pyra Sigil.

She stared until it faded beneath her skin.

Not gone.

Just settled.

She sat in silence.

And knew.

She couldn’t stay.

Outer Wastes – Rebel Bunker Ruins

The wind out here felt heavier.

No signs. No scavengers.

The bunker’s bones remained untouched.

She descended the old access slope. No words. No tears.

Just memory.

Mess hall—half-gone.

Briefing room—cracked maps fluttering like ghosts.

Launch bay—silent. Torn. Where Axel made her leave.

Then she saw it.

Half-buried.

His torchblade.

Still cracked. Still waiting.

She knelt. Touched it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She let it hurt.

No one answered.

She didn’t expect them to.

The sigil pulsed beneath her coat.

No heat.

Just weight.

She stood.

Didn’t know where she was going.

Only that back wasn’t far enough.

For the first time in three years…

She walked toward the future.

Elsewhere in Kaelthorn – That Same Night

The room reeked of blood and citrus.

A boy stood, trembling.

Across from him, a man with steel-thread gloves sat in silence.

Taz Moreno.

Leader of the Sixth Fang.

Kaelthorn’s most dangerous mistake.

“We got the tip right,” the boy stammered. “Box was in play. Verge sector. Then—this girl. Fast. Trained. Took it.”

Taz didn’t speak.

“She wore black. No name. Just… fire in her eyes.”

“You had one job,” Taz said, standing.

“I—I tried—”

“You thought you’d grab the satchel. Maybe get a second payday.”

The boy froze.

“You thought I wouldn’t know.”

Taz moved before he could react.

One hand around his throat. Lifted him off the ground.

“You were told the gem was the only thing that mattered.”

“You made yourself the priority.”

The blade came clean. Deep.

No theatrics.

Just finality.

Blood pooled.

Taz wiped the blade.

“Find her,” he said, walking away.

“And if the gem’s real…”

He poured his drink onto the floor.

“Don’t kill her.”

A pause.

“Break her first.”