Chapter 179: The Name Beneath Flame

The Scar tree didn’t sleep anymore.

Its roots pulsed faintly beneath the soil, like a slow-beating heart under cracked skin. And Serena could feel it every time she stepped near it—a hum in her bones, a tension behind her eyes.

The mark on her back flared more frequently now, sometimes waking her in the middle of the night, other times humming gently like a remembered lullaby.

But this morning, it burned.

Not from pain.

From a message.

She stumbled out of her tent just after dawn, still barefoot, dragging her fingers down the glowing sigils on her spine.

Kiva spotted her first and rushed to her side.

“It’s active again?” she asked.

Serena nodded, sweat beading at her temple.

“It’s not just reacting anymore. It’s transmitting something.”

“To you?”

“No,” Serena gasped. “To the flame.”

By midmorning, the camp had gathered in a loose circle around the Scar.

Caine brought a scroll of old flame-marks he’d unsealed from the Ember Vault.

“They’re symbols,” he said, “but they’re also sounds. Pieces of a language lost when the fire was silenced by war.”

“What does it say?” Elias asked.

Caine pointed to a repeated mark near the top.

“This one appears in every known recording of the Scar’s awakening.”

Kiva leaned closer. “What’s the word?”

Caine looked at Serena.

“You already know it.”

Serena whispered, “Emreya.”

The fire sparked along her fingertips the moment she said it aloud.

A sound.

A command.

A name.

Kiva recoiled. “That was a response.”

Serena nodded. “It’s one of the Scar’s original names. It means ‘the remembering fire.’”

Caine stared. “You didn’t read that. You felt it.”

Serena turned her palms upward, flame curling gently across her skin.

“The mark translated it through me. I didn’t learn it. I recalled it.”

Elias stepped forward. “Then what happens if we remember all the names?”

The fire crackled at the center of the camp.

And the child, still silent, still watching, suddenly whispered—

“Then it won’t be alone anymore.”

Everyone turned.

The child stood rigid, eyes glowing faintly gold.

Serena knelt. “What do you see?”

The child’s voice dropped an octave, echoing:

“The fire doesn’t want to rule. It wants to return.”

“To where?”

“To the others.”

“What others?”

“The ones who were lost before the flame turned inward. The ones buried beneath the first ash. The ones who gave their names… and forgot.”

The child collapsed.

And silence fell.

Later, Serena sat with the child as it slept.

Elias entered quietly, crouching beside her.

“You think it was Imara speaking through them again?”

“Maybe,” Serena said. “But it didn’t feel like her.”

“Then who?”

Serena stared into the flickering fire.

“Someone older.”

That night, Kiva, Caine, and Kael gathered to review the sigil again.

“It’s a partial map,” Kiva said, pointing to the flame lines. “But not to a place. To a memory.”

“A collective one?” Kael asked.

Serena nodded slowly. “One that fire stored when we stopped listening to it.”

“Then how do we remember it?”

Caine opened the scroll. “By saying the names. All of them.”

“There are hundreds.”

“There were,” Serena said. “But only nine were ever spoken aloud. Nine keepers. Nine embers. Nine voices of the flame.”

“And what happens when we speak the ninth?”

Serena looked into the fire.

“We see what the flame remembers when it’s no longer afraid.”

The next day, the camp began collecting stories.

Not legends.

Memories.

Old journals. Lost letters. Names carved into weapons. Lyrics from burnt songs.

Serena created a circle at the base of the Scar and placed the ember-stone—the one that bore her mother’s name, Halros, and now Elias’s—into the center.

“We’ll call them back one by one,” she said. “We’ll remember what they were. And what they gave.”

Elias touched her hand.

“You’re giving the fire a soul again.”

“I’m giving it home.”

The second name came at dusk.

Not from Serena.

From Kael.

He was keeping watch along the ridge when he heard it—whispered in the wind like a forgotten prayer.

“Asynae.”

He said it aloud.

And the earth trembled.

Serena felt it in her mark immediately.

Two names now.

Two keys.

And the Scar tree shed a single leaf—dark, curled, glowing from within.

Serena caught it in her palm.

“Asynae,” she whispered.

The leaf turned to ash.

But left no burn.

Only warmth.

That night, Serena found Elias outside the sentry circle, shirtless, breathing slow and deep. His arms were glowing again—but not red.

Gold.

She walked toward him slowly.

“You’re changing again.”

He nodded.

“The fire doesn’t just want to speak through me. It wants to speak with me.”

Serena placed her hands on his chest. His heart beat steady, warm beneath her palms.

“Are you afraid?”

“I think I should be,” Elias said. “But all I feel is… ready.”

She stepped closer.

Their foreheads touched.

“You don’t have to carry it,” she whispered.

“I’m not carrying it alone,” he replied. “I’m carrying you with it.”

They kissed again.

Not like before.

This was slower.

More certain.

A promise, not a question.

When they pulled apart, Serena whispered:

“The fire loves you.”

Elias smiled faintly. “Then it finally has good taste.”

Just before dawn, the world shifted.

A scream cut across the camp.

Serena bolted upright.

It came from the eastern ridge.

She ran.

And when she reached the clearing, she froze.

Standing in the center was a man in torn robes. His hair was ash-gray. His arms were scarred with old flame burns.

And his face—

Serena’s chest tightened.

“Darian?”

Elias caught up seconds later, panting.

But Darian didn’t look at them.

He stared at the fire, swaying.

Serena stepped forward. “Where have you been?”

He looked at her then.

His eyes were wrong.

Too bright.

Too calm.

“I’ve been under,” he said.

“Under what?”

“The ash. The silence. The part where the fire forgets who it used to be.”

Serena reached out.

He flinched.

“You shouldn’t touch me.”

“Why?”

Darian looked directly at Elias.

“Because the Gate sent me back.”