The earth still smoked from the aftermath of the Primordial Spell. What began as a skirmish had erupted into something monumental—a massacre of legend.
From a mere force of 101, under the command of Lysira Cindergale, a firestorm had swept across the battlefield.
The Aurelion Legions, originally numbering over 30,000, had been torn asunder. The first meteor split had incinerated 3,000 in seconds, but that was only the beginning.
Over the course of five relentless hours, Lysira moved like a living flame between the broken lines. Every gesture of her gauntlet summoned destruction. Her troops—now bound by awe and loyalty—fought with ferocity, emboldened by her divine blaze.
Her Pyreththread evolved in combat, adapting to enemy formations, burning spells mid-air, even bending enemy fire back toward its caster. She had become the center of a storm, her mere presence disrupting coordinated magic formations.
"She's not casting," a retreating Aurelion officer had whispered in horror. "She's commanding flame itself. Like it remembers her blood."
By the time the smoke began to thin, 28,000 Aurelion soldiers lay dead.
Only smoldering flags, charred weapons, and blackened armor remained in the ruins of the battlefield.
The remaining 2,000 survivors fled to their nearest war camps, many abandoning formation altogether. Some ran without their boots. Others wept—haunted by the glowing outline of a red-haired girl cloaked in fire, whose eyes burned brighter than the battlefield.
Vastelune – A Kingdom Stirred
Word traveled like wildfire, carried on the breath of astonished scouts, war mages, and enchanted ravens.
Lysira Cindergale was no longer just a noble heir or fiery tsundere from a dueling house. She had become myth.
In the city of Vastelune, bells tolled not for warning—but in reverence. Crowds gathered at crystal screens broadcasting illusions of the battlefield aftermath.
Songs began in the lower wards. Taverns renamed drinks in her honor. Children reenacted her flame-kick through a titan's shield.
"Did you hear what they call her now?""The Crimson Tempest!""No, the Ember of Cataclysm!""She set the sky on fire, how do we even compete!?"
Back in the royal court, murmurs flooded the strategy halls.
"She's no longer a mere commander," said one noble. "She's a walking relic."
Even King Vastelune, upon reading the casualty reports, stood silently before his war table. Then, with a solemn nod, he declared:
"Henceforth, Lysira Cindergale shall be honored as The Blazing Heir of Ashen Valor. Let her name be etched into the eternal record."
At the Edge of the Ember Plains
Lysira knelt at the peak of a blackened hill as her soldiers rested behind her. Her gauntlets steamed with faint heat. The weight of what she had done finally settled into her bones.
A faint shimmer flickered beside her.
Ari Solen stepped through a dimensional thread gate, quiet and steady.
"…That wasn't the spell I taught you," he said softly.
Lysira stood, wind catching strands of her red hair. She didn't turn right away.
"I… remembered something in the middle of the battle," she said. "Not something you taught me. Something… older."
Ari's obsidian-gray eyes narrowed. "Ancestral memory."
She nodded, then turned to face him.
"You told me I was more than a Cindergale. You were right. I wasn't just born for battle. I was born to burn down lies."
Ari smiled faintly, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"You just lit the first beacon."