The silence after the battle was worse than the fight.

Ash drifted through the air like falling snow, coating Rael’s armor in gray, streaking Lakvenor’s hair until it looked frost-touched. The Glimmerwood’s glow was faint now, its branches quivering as if the whole forest recoiled from what it had seen.

And in the clearing, the Ashborn knelt.

Their ember-eyes glowed faintly, unblinking, unbreathing. Not rage, not hunger. Devotion. Patient, terrible stillness.

Sira stood in their midst, her staff pressed into the moss to steady herself, her body trembling despite the warmth of the shard glowing faintly at her feet. The runes still flickered in her mind: Ash remembers. Ash hungers. Ash kneels.

The Burden Unveiled

“They’re bowing to you,” Lakvenor said at last, his voice flat with disbelief. He spun his staff once, sparks leaping from its tips. “Ash-born remnants of the Collapse, kneeling like priests before a goddess. You.”

Sira didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat had gone dry, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Rael’s blade hissed as he sheathed it. He studied the kneeling forms warily, but his voice was for her. “What do they want?”

She tried to speak, but the words caught. “They… they’re bound. To me. To what’s inside me. It’s like a thread, pulling tighter with every breath.” Her hand trembled against her staff. “It’s in my blood. My bones. My—” She stopped, voice breaking.

Memories of Fear

The sight of them — kneeling, waiting — clawed open memories she had long kept buried.

She was six, running barefoot through the palace gardens, ivy winding up the trellises in green spirals. The other children played with wooden swords, their laughter echoing across the courtyards. When she reached for a flower, it bloomed too quickly, petals bursting open in her hand. A servant gasped. Another crossed himself. By evening, whispers had spread: unnatural.

She was ten, seated beside her mother at the throne of Mithila. Janara’s crown gleamed like living oak, but her face was grave when Sira asked, Why do the others look at me that way? The queen’s hand tightened on hers. “Because they see what they do not understand. And people fear what they cannot name.” But she had said no more, turning away before the questions could spill further.

She was sixteen, studying the Codex fragments in the temple archives. A priest had watched her from the shadows, lips moving in a prayer not meant for her ears. Later, she overheard him whisper to another: She is not born. She is wrought.

And now — the Ashborn knelt. Confirmation of every fear. Every whisper.

Her voice trembled. “I was never meant to be a queen. Or a scholar. Or a warrior. I was made to be this. A vessel.”

Rael’s Anchor

Rael stepped closer, ash crunching under his boots. His face, streaked with soot, was steady as ever.

“Sira,” he said softly, but with the weight of command behind it.

Her eyes snapped up to his. Wild. Afraid. Searching.

“You are not a vessel,” he said. “You are Sira of Mithila. Daughter of Janara. Scholar. Warrior. My companion. My bond.”

Her lips parted, but fear surged back. “Then why do they kneel, Rael? Why do they see me when I don’t even see myself?”

His hand settled on her shoulder, warm through the ash and cold. “Because they are ash and ruin. Because they hunger for anything that binds them. But they do not define you. Not them. Not prophecy. Not even your blood. You are defined by the choices you make.”

The steadiness of his voice cut through the storm inside her. Not enough to banish it — but enough to hold it at bay.

Lakvenor’s Warning

Lakvenor paced at the edge of the clearing, staff twirling with nervous energy. “Brother, you speak of choice, but don’t blind yourself. If Collapse remnants kneel to her, others will follow. Not people. Not beasts. Forces. Relics. Maybe even gods. What then?”

Rael didn’t look away from Sira. His voice was steel. “Then we make certain she is never broken.”

Lakvenor muttered something sharp under his breath, but said no more.

The Quiet Between Them

When night settled and the campfire’s glow pushed back the ash-shadowed forest, the Ashborn still knelt in the clearing beyond, patient as statues.

Sira sat apart, staring at the shard in her lap. Its glow was faint now, like a heartbeat under skin. Her hands shook as she traced the runes.

Rael approached and lowered himself beside her. For a time, he said nothing, only sat with her in the silence.

Finally, his voice came low, almost hesitant. “The world expects me to carry crowns and wars. But I think your burden is heavier than mine.”

Her eyes flicked to him, glistening in the firelight. “And if I can’t carry it?”

“Then I will carry it with you,” he said simply.

The words struck deeper than any blade. She looked at him, truly looked, and for the first time since the Ashborn’s kneeling, the fear loosened its grip on her chest. Not gone. Never gone. But lessened.

Beyond the firelight, ember eyes still glowed, unblinking. Waiting.

And she knew the questions had only just begun.