The Thirteenth Ember - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

The rebellion’s camp was no longer hidden.
Scouts had spotted movement on the ridge to the north figures cloaked in obsidian, their horses black as pitch, their armor etched with crescent sigils: the Crestborn Vow.
Assassins.
Sanctioned by the Court.
Silencers.
Aeryn stood in the strategy tent, arms crossed, brows drawn tight over hollow eyes. She hadn’t slept. Neither had Kael. The air between them was tense but quiet the kind that only came when you knew the next breath might be your last
before war.
“They don’t send Crestborn for warning,” Kael murmured. “They send them when they want the end.”
“They won’t find it here,” Aeryn said flatly. “Not unless it’s their own.”
But unease crept like frost through the ranks.
Allies began pulling back.
The Sable Riders abandoned their post on the eastern ridge.
Three messengers from the Hollow Reaches vanished on a routine supply run.
And in the prayer circle outside the healer’s tent, someone had carved into the sand:
The flame cannot shield the womb."
Aeryn stared at the words for a long time.
And then she burned them to ash with a flick of her hand.
She said nothing to the crowd gathered around.
But that night, she and Kael stood at the far edge of camp again and the silence between them was heavy.
“You should sleep,” he said softly, brushing windblown curls from her face.
“So should you,” she replied.
But neither of them moved.
The stars above them were sharp tonight, unblinking. Aeryn leaned into Kael’s chest,
breathing in the warmth of him, her eyes closed.
He wrapped his arms around her slowly, fingers slipping beneath her cloak, his palm settling against the curve of her lower back.
“I don’t want to lose this,” she whispered.
He didn’t ask what this meant.
He just held her tighter.
They kissed again.
Not hungry hungry was for fire.
This was anchored.
Slow.
Intentional.
Her hands found his neck, fingertips dancing along his pulse, while Kael’s mouth traced a line
from her lips to her jaw, down to the soft hollow of her throat.
Aeryn gasped, soft and breathy, her body responding instinctively to him. His touch wasn’t fire now. It was grounding. Worshipful.
Her tunic shifted. He stilled.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice ragged but reverent.
She nodded.
“I want to feel alive.”
And she did.
But they didn’t get far.
Not that night.
Not with the arrow slicing through the air and embedding in the stone at Kael’s feet.
Instantly, he shielded her with his body, drawing his dagger, eyes scanning the trees. The firelight behind them flickered violently as two black-cloaked figures dropped from the ridge above.
Crestborn.
Trained in silence.
Raised in shadow.
Their blades sang one heading straight for Aeryn.
But Aeryn was ready.
She turned, flames spiraling from her palms, catching the attacker mid-air. The woman
screamed, dissolved into light.
The second leapt for Kael and for a second, he let him.
Let him close.
Let him hope.
Then Kael’s hand ignited, his dagger catching the assassin’s wrist, driving flame straight through his throat.
Smoke.
Ash.
Silence.
Aeryn lowered her hands slowly.
Kael stood in front of her, chest rising fast, eyes wild.
You’re bleeding,” she said.
He looked down.
The cut was shallow, but his tunic was dark with it.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping forward.
“No.”
She reached up and touched his cheek.
Then she whispered, “They’re testing us.”
“And we passed.”
“Not yet,” she said.
She turned toward the distant cliff.
“I want the one who sent them.”
That night, the rebellion did not sleep.
And neither did its enemies.
Because the woman they feared most was no longer just fire.
She was fury with a purpose.