Nehvara turns her head to us slowly, a small smile gracing her face as if she’s somehow privy to our conversation through the tether.
Nehvara keeps walking through the dark caves of Cindralis, taking us deeper and deeper into its underbelly. She carries a lantern that barely enlightens the space enough to see a few steps ahead, and the humidity in the air is cloying.
We walk in single-file, sweat beading on my skin, for what feels like hours, but no one speaks. No one dares to with Tvira walking at the rear, her spear clanging the ground with every step.
Elyssara turns to me, her face glistening with sweat, she opens her mouth to speak?—
“We’re here,” Nehvara announces, stopping in front of a stone archway.
“The Heart of Ashara is sacred.Holy. We have been guardians of the Flame-heart for a long time, waiting for the Lightborne to walk the realms to claim what’s rightfully hers,” she says, her words reverberating off the stone walls. “You will know when and how to awaken the Flame-heart. There will come a time when you will be faced with loss, and you will know,” her cryptic words wrap around us, and Elyssara’s breath hitches.
“The Flame-heart asks for your blood, Lightborne. That is all,” Tvira says coolly from the back of the group.
“My blood?” Elyssara asks.
“Come,” Nehvara commands, gesturing to Elyssara to move to the front. Nehvara unsheathes her small knife, palming it with deftness—like she’s used it before...skillfully. She spins the knife around, holding out the hilt to Elyssara. “A slice across the palm, a drop of royal Dravari blood on the jewel,” she instructs with simplicity.
Elyssara looks around at me and holds out her hand for me to join her. “Yes, yes. Take your Starbound,” Nehvara says mockingly, though I can tell she means it fondly.
I take her hand and step through the threshold—and the air shifts immediately. Even thicker—charged with a power so old it hums against my skin. Crackling like a warning, or perhaps a welcome. The chamber is vast and circular, carved from dark stone like the rest of Cindralis, but here, rivers of molten embers run through the walls like veins, casting the chamber in a fiery red glow.
It flickers and dances, casting moving shadows across the chambers. In another situation it might be eerie, but here, with her, it’s beautiful.
At the center of the room, a single stone pillar rises from the floor—worn smooth by time, reverently polished. Upon it rests a red velvet cushion, and nestled atop it, The Heart of Ashara.The jewel of the Flame-heart.
A chain of gold, delicate yet strong, spills over the velvet. In the heart of the pillow, a swirling red and orange jewel is encased in a claw-like setting of solid gold, each curve precise, talon-like.
Elyssara edges closer, moving slowly, deliberately. As we get closer, I realize the jewel moves, as if it’s a living thing. A sacred, holy thing, desperate to awaken. Red and orange meld together, crashing into each other like waves.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers in awe.
“It’s yours,” I reply smoothly, reminding her that she is the rightful Dravari heir. Soul-bound to dragon-kind.
A small gasp escapes her as she stands before the pillar. “Mine,” she whispers, as if reminding herself. The air crackles around us, ancient magic drenching the chamber.
She moves her hand to the gold chain of the Heart of Ashara, moving to pick it up, her fingers graze the metal lightly.
“Ow!” She shrieks, pulling her hand back sharply, and cradling her hand in her chest.
I move to her side swiftly, “What happened?” I demand.
“It felt like a bolt of lightning under my fingertips,” she says, her fingers branded with a swollen red welt.
“Blood, dear. It needs your blood,” Nehvara croons from the archway.
“Right. Blood,” Elyssara murmurs to herself.
She holds Nehvara’s knife in her right hand, hovering it over the palm of her left. The knife is small, ceremonial, runes etched into the hilt that I don’t understand.
With a single cut across her palm, crimson wells up, vivid against her skin.
She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t hesitate either.
She holds her hand over the Flame-heart, letting a drop of blood fall directly onto the jewel—the Heart of Ashara.
Where ruins burn and the Flame-heart sleeps.
I remember the words.
