# CHAPTER 2 — THE PRINCE’S SUMMONS
The journey to the capital took three days.
Lyra spent most of it in the small cabin of the prince’s traveling carriage, watching the landscape change through rain-streaked windows. The rolling farmland of the outer provinces gave way to gentle hills, then steeper ones, and finally the great stone roads of the kingdom’s heartland — roads that had been built by magic two centuries ago, smooth as glass and wide enough for three carts abreast.
She did not speak much. The soldiers who traveled with them — a dozen in total, all wearing the silver and blue of the Valdris guard — seemed content to leave her alone. Perhaps they had been ordered to. Perhaps they were simply unnerved by what they had seen in Thornhollow.
The prince rode with his men, not in the carriage. Lyra caught glimpses of him through the rear window when the road curved — a tall figure in winter armor, his horse a grey destrier that moved with unusual grace. He had not attempted to speak with her since that first night.
She was grateful for that, in a way. She had too much to process without adding conversation to the burden.
On the second night, they made camp at a waystation on the border of the Ashwood — a dense forest that had once been the site of a great battle between human kingdoms. The trees there grew twisted, their bark blackened by old fires that had never fully gone out. Lyra could feel them as they passed through, a low hum of dormant magic that pressed against her awareness like a hand against a window.
That night, a man came to her tent.
He was old — seventy at least — with a face like crumpled parchment and eyes that seemed to look through her rather than at her. He wore robes the color of aged parchment, embroidered with threads that might have been gold or might have been something else entirely. A staff of white wood leaned against his chair.
“Miss Ashford,” he said. It was not a question. “My name is Orin. I am the Grand Mage of Valdris. The prince has told me what happened in your village.”
Lyra sat up, pulling her blanket around her shoulders. “And you want to tell me what I am.”
“Something far older than what you have been told.” Orin lowered himself into the chair across from her with the careful movements of the very old. “The fire in your blood is not a gift. It is a birthright. One that was nearly lost to time.”
“I’ve heard this before. From your prince.”
“Then let me tell you what he did not.” Orin folded his hands over his stomach. “The kingdom of Valdris is protected by five flames — magical barriers maintained at ancient temples across the land. These flames have burned since the kingdom’s founding, three hundred years ago. They are the only thing that keeps the Shadow King imprisoned.”
“Shadow King?”
Orin’s expression shifted — a flicker of something that might have been disappointment, quickly hidden. “The prince has not told you everything. Perhaps he wanted to wait until you arrived at the capital. Perhaps he thought it would overwhelm you.” He paused. “He is sometimes too protective.”
“The man attacked my village,” Lyra said. “Shadow creatures. They killed everyone I knew. I think I can handle being overwhelmed.”
A long silence passed between them. Outside the tent, wind moved through the Ashwood, carrying sounds that might have been whispers or might have been nothing at all.
“The Shadow King,” Orin finally said, “was human once. His name was Malachar, and he was a king — not of Valdris, but of a kingdom that existed before it. He wanted immortality, and he was willing to pay any price to obtain it. He found a way to draw power from the divine flames — the same flames that protect us now — and he consumed so much that he broke the barriers between worlds.”
Lyra waited.
“When he did this, he tore open a hole in the fabric of reality. Shadows poured through — creatures of pure darkness that fed on light and heat and life. The kingdom burned. Millions died. The only thing that stopped him was a woman named Seraphine, the first queen of Valdris. She was an ember — the first of your bloodline. She gave her life to bind Malachar in a prison of living flame, and she created the bloodline so that someday, another ember might finish what she had started.”
Lyra’s hands had begun to shake. She pressed them flat against the floor of the tent.
“And now,” Orin said quietly, “the flames are failing. We have known for years that this was coming. The barriers are weakening, the temples are aging, and the Shadow King is growing stronger. He has been pushing against his prison for decades, and he is closer to breaking free than he has ever been.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of the ember.” Orin leaned forward. “You are not just a woman with unusual magic, Lyra Ashford. You are the last in a line of beings who are quite literally made to fight the Shadow King. Your blood carries Seraphine’s fire — the only fire that can stand against his darkness. Without you, the kingdom falls. With you…” He spread his hands. “We do not know. The last ember died two hundred years ago, and the knowledge of what she could do was lost.”
Lyra stood and walked to the tent’s entrance. She pushed the flap aside and looked out at the darkness beyond. The soldiers’ campfires were embers, barely visible. Above them, the stars were hidden by clouds.
“Why me?” she asked. “There must be others. Other villages, other people with the bloodline.”
“There were. We have spent decades searching for them — for any sign of the ember’s return. We found nothing. And then Thornhollow burned, and Prince Kael felt your fire from fifty miles away, and we knew.” Orin’s voice was gentle but firm. “You are the last, Lyra. Whether by design or chance, you are the only one who can do what must be done.”
“What must be done?”
“Reignite the Divine Flames. Find the Ember Crown — an artifact lost for a century. And kill the Shadow King, once and for all.” Orin stood, slowly, his joints creaking. “I know it is a great deal to ask. I know you have lost everything. But I am asking you to save a kingdom, and I believe — I have seen it, in the fire that burned in you — that you have the strength to do it.”
Lyra stared into the darkness. She thought of her mother’s house, the blue shutters, the garden with tomatoes and peppers. She thought of Old Garrett and his sister on the east side of the village. She thought of the creature that had spoken to her in the tunnel — The last ember. We have been waiting for you.
“I don’t know how to be a hero,” she said.
“No one does,” Orin replied. “Until they are forced to become one.”
—
They arrived in Dawnhaven on the morning of the third day.
The capital city of Valdris was built on a plateau above the river Ardent, its white stone walls gleaming in the pale morning light. Seven towers rose from the city’s center, the tallest belonging to the palace itself — a structure that seemed to grow from the bedrock of the plateau, its spires reaching toward clouds that seemed close enough to touch.
Lyra had seen illustrations of the capital in books brought to Thornhollow by traveling merchants. The pictures had not done it justice. The city sprawled across the plateau like a jewel set in a crown, its streets broad and orderly, its buildings crafted from stone that sparkled with flecks of embedded crystal. Even the air felt different — charged with a subtle electricity that made her skin prickle.
The palace gates opened for the prince’s party without hesitation. Guards saluted as they passed, their faces revealing nothing of whatever they might have thought of the soot-stained woman traveling in the royal carriage.
“The prince will want to speak with you immediately,” a steward told her as she was led through halls of marble and gold. “But first, perhaps, a bath and fresh clothes. Your current attire is not—”
“I know what it is.” Lyra looked down at her miner’s clothes — scorched, torn, stained with ash and blood. “I was there.”
The steward’s expression flickered, but he said nothing more.
They gave her a room in the east wing of the palace — large, with a bed that could have held five people and windows that looked out over the river and the plains beyond. A bath was prepared, hot water scented with herbs she didn’t recognize. Clean clothes were laid out: a dress of deep red that seemed too fine for her, too elegant, too much like a costume she would be playing a role in.
She bathed, and when she emerged, she found a young woman waiting in her room.
The woman was perhaps a year or two younger than Lyra, with dark hair cut short in a style that seemed impractical for court life and eyes that sparkled with an energy that matched the subtle charge in the air. She wore clothes that were more practical than fashionable — leather boots, fitted trousers, a loose shirt that had clearly been designed for movement rather than appearance.
“You’re the ember,” the woman said. It was not a question.
“I… yes. I think so.”
“Good.” The woman smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. “I’m Sera. Princess Sera, technically, but that’s boring. Kael is my brother. I’m supposed to be your protector, or something equally tedious. Are you hungry? The kitchens here are awful, but I know how to raid them.”
Lyra stared at her. Three days ago, she had been a miner. Now she was apparently being assigned a royal protector, and that protector was sitting on her bed and asking about food.
“I’m confused,” she admitted.
Sera laughed — a bright, sharp sound that filled the room. “That’s probably fair. Let me put it simply: you’re some kind of chosen one with fire magic, my brother rescued you from a shadow attack, and I’m supposed to make sure you don’t die while you figure out what all of this means. I intend to make that as entertaining as possible.” She stood and offered Lyra her hand. “Now. Food?”
Lyra took the offered hand and let herself be pulled to her feet. The world was strange, and getting stranger by the hour. But for the first time since Thornhollow had burned, she felt something other than despair.
It wasn’t hope — not quite. But it might have been the beginning of something.