The Thirteenth Ember - Chapter 42: Chapter 42
You are reading The Thirteenth Ember, Chapter 42: Chapter 42. Read more chapters of The Thirteenth Ember.
The map was old.
Drawn in ink that had bled from heat and time, marked in a code known only to the highest ranks of the Crestborn Vow. But Kael had seen enough death to recognize the pattern.
“This isn’t a stronghold,” he said, running a finger along the faded contour lines. “It’s a breeding pit.”
Aeryn looked up, face shadowed by the tent’s lantern light. “For assassins?”
“For fear,” he replied. “They don’t train Crestborn like soldiers. They raise them like wolves.”
The map led them to the Ruins of Tar Enin — a blackened fortress carved into the cliffs of the Ashmere Basin, long abandoned by the old monarchy and now repurposed by shadows.
Only Aeryn and Kael made the journey.
No guards. No council. No banners.
Just flame and resolve.
And the bitter silence of two people ready to kill before they were hunted again.
The ride took two days.
By night, they camped in silence. By morning, they moved with only hand signs and whispers. Aeryn’s power flared subtly in her veins, stronger now than it had ever been — not from rage or training, but from clarity.
She knew what she fought for.
Not just rebellion. Not even survival.
She fought for the right to exist. To love. To protect something that had not yet been born, but already mattered.
Tar Enin appeared like a scar across the cliffside.
A palace of jagged stone and narrow halls, its walls covered in the sigils of silence and shadows. Magic-suppressing runes were carved into every gatepost.
Kael spotted the lookout first — a boy, no older than seventeen, dressed in black, his eyes blank as a mirror.
Kael didn’t hesitate.
He moved behind him like mist, disarmed him silently, and left him unconscious beneath the roots of a twisted tree.
Aeryn watched.
She didn’t flinch.
They entered through a hidden tunnel Kael had used years ago during his time in exile.
Now, it led them to the bowels of the fortress a long hall lined with cell doors, each one etched with numbers and burns.
They passed whispering voices. Crying children.
One cell held a girl, no more than twelve, with flame-touched eyes.
Aeryn paused.
The girl looked up at her. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t cry.
Just whispered, “You are real.”
Kael touched her arm gently. “We can’t stop. Not yet.”
At the heart of the fortress stood the handler’s sanctum high towers coiled with wire, surrounded by charm-bound sentries.
Inside, she sat waiting.
Lady Nyra Vell.
Draped in silver robes, her skin bone-pale, her mouth twisted in a smile that never reached her eyes.
“I wondered when you’d come,” she said without rising. “The flame always returns to ash.”
Kael stepped forward. “You sent assassins. You tried to slit her throat in the dark.”
Nyra smiled wider. “I sent cleansing. What you carry is not rebellion. It’s blasphemy.”
Her eyes shifted to Aeryn’s abdomen.
Aeryn didn’t flinch.
“Say another word about what grows in me,” she said quietly, “and you won’t leave this tower alive.”
Nyra stood slowly. “Then strike. Show me your flame.”
She raised her hands, runes flashing along her wrists.
Aeryn moved first.
A wall of fire tore across the chamber, but Nyra was fast shielding with magic drawn from the fortress itself, the stones screaming with pressure.
Kael lunged through the side, slashing at her shoulder with his dagger. She screamed, the force knocking her into a brazier, smoke pouring from her sleeve.
Aeryn summoned her flame again, eyes glowing gold.
But this time she aimed not for Nyra.
She aimed for the sigils above, the structure’s core.
The explosion cracked the tower open.
Nyra shrieked as light consumed the ceiling.
When the ash settled, Kael stood over the crumpled handler.
Alive. Barely.
Aeryn knelt beside her.
“There are more like you,” she said. “But you were the one who hunted me. Let them see what I do to hunters.”
She didn’t burn her.
She left her broken.
Because fear, she knew now, wasn’t in flame.
It was in survival.
They freed the prisoners on their way out.
Children. Young fighters. One Crestborn defector who knelt at Aeryn’s feet and said, “The flame doesn’t destroy. It rebuilds.”
And then, they rode.
Not as fugitives.
But as fire made flesh.
Drawn in ink that had bled from heat and time, marked in a code known only to the highest ranks of the Crestborn Vow. But Kael had seen enough death to recognize the pattern.
“This isn’t a stronghold,” he said, running a finger along the faded contour lines. “It’s a breeding pit.”
Aeryn looked up, face shadowed by the tent’s lantern light. “For assassins?”
“For fear,” he replied. “They don’t train Crestborn like soldiers. They raise them like wolves.”
The map led them to the Ruins of Tar Enin — a blackened fortress carved into the cliffs of the Ashmere Basin, long abandoned by the old monarchy and now repurposed by shadows.
Only Aeryn and Kael made the journey.
No guards. No council. No banners.
Just flame and resolve.
And the bitter silence of two people ready to kill before they were hunted again.
The ride took two days.
By night, they camped in silence. By morning, they moved with only hand signs and whispers. Aeryn’s power flared subtly in her veins, stronger now than it had ever been — not from rage or training, but from clarity.
She knew what she fought for.
Not just rebellion. Not even survival.
She fought for the right to exist. To love. To protect something that had not yet been born, but already mattered.
Tar Enin appeared like a scar across the cliffside.
A palace of jagged stone and narrow halls, its walls covered in the sigils of silence and shadows. Magic-suppressing runes were carved into every gatepost.
Kael spotted the lookout first — a boy, no older than seventeen, dressed in black, his eyes blank as a mirror.
Kael didn’t hesitate.
He moved behind him like mist, disarmed him silently, and left him unconscious beneath the roots of a twisted tree.
Aeryn watched.
She didn’t flinch.
They entered through a hidden tunnel Kael had used years ago during his time in exile.
Now, it led them to the bowels of the fortress a long hall lined with cell doors, each one etched with numbers and burns.
They passed whispering voices. Crying children.
One cell held a girl, no more than twelve, with flame-touched eyes.
Aeryn paused.
The girl looked up at her. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t cry.
Just whispered, “You are real.”
Kael touched her arm gently. “We can’t stop. Not yet.”
At the heart of the fortress stood the handler’s sanctum high towers coiled with wire, surrounded by charm-bound sentries.
Inside, she sat waiting.
Lady Nyra Vell.
Draped in silver robes, her skin bone-pale, her mouth twisted in a smile that never reached her eyes.
“I wondered when you’d come,” she said without rising. “The flame always returns to ash.”
Kael stepped forward. “You sent assassins. You tried to slit her throat in the dark.”
Nyra smiled wider. “I sent cleansing. What you carry is not rebellion. It’s blasphemy.”
Her eyes shifted to Aeryn’s abdomen.
Aeryn didn’t flinch.
“Say another word about what grows in me,” she said quietly, “and you won’t leave this tower alive.”
Nyra stood slowly. “Then strike. Show me your flame.”
She raised her hands, runes flashing along her wrists.
Aeryn moved first.
A wall of fire tore across the chamber, but Nyra was fast shielding with magic drawn from the fortress itself, the stones screaming with pressure.
Kael lunged through the side, slashing at her shoulder with his dagger. She screamed, the force knocking her into a brazier, smoke pouring from her sleeve.
Aeryn summoned her flame again, eyes glowing gold.
But this time she aimed not for Nyra.
She aimed for the sigils above, the structure’s core.
The explosion cracked the tower open.
Nyra shrieked as light consumed the ceiling.
When the ash settled, Kael stood over the crumpled handler.
Alive. Barely.
Aeryn knelt beside her.
“There are more like you,” she said. “But you were the one who hunted me. Let them see what I do to hunters.”
She didn’t burn her.
She left her broken.
Because fear, she knew now, wasn’t in flame.
It was in survival.
They freed the prisoners on their way out.
Children. Young fighters. One Crestborn defector who knelt at Aeryn’s feet and said, “The flame doesn’t destroy. It rebuilds.”
And then, they rode.
Not as fugitives.
But as fire made flesh.
End of The Thirteenth Ember Chapter 42. Continue reading Chapter 43 or return to The Thirteenth Ember book page.