They came at dawn.
Not with trumpets, but with silence.
Five riders cloaked in crimson, bearing the sigil of the long-quiet Eastern Kingdom: Virelle. No emissary from Virelle had crossed the Hollow's threshold in three centuries. Their silence had always been its own warning.
Now, that silence broke.
Alina stood at the altar, the Echo Crown burning faintly on her brow. Selene flanked her, blade ready, gaze sharper than steel.
The lead rider dismounted. Their face was veiled, but their voice was unmistakable—clear, regal, and dangerous.
"We come not to kneel," the envoy said. "We come to warn."
Alina's voice was steady. "Then speak."
"The East has no need of curses or crowns forged in fire. But it remembers. And it prepares."
Selene stepped forward. "Is that a threat?"
The envoy did not flinch. "It is prophecy."
A scroll was placed at Alina's feet—sealed in bone, wrapped in shadow.
"Within this, the names of those who will rise. Within this, the fate of your flame."
Without another word, the envoys turned and vanished into the storm they'd ridden in on.
Alina picked up the scroll.
As soon as her fingers brushed the seal, blood trickled from her palm.
The scroll unraveled itself.
And on the parchment—her name.
Followed by Selene's.
Then a third.
One neither of them had ever seen.
"The One Who Ends Flame."
The wind howled through the Hollow.
The East had not come to submit.
It had come to start a war.