Romans & histoires The Crone Of Midnight Embers

Black as midnight. A phantom.

I learned from spending time here that my zodiac was an Aries, which explains why I have such a strong connection with my fire element. I walked inside and caught Oberon’s attention right away. We shared a smile and he stopped his work to talk with me. He was tall with black hair and gray eyes that almost looked silver. He was handsome and only ten years older than me, but there was nothing ever there between us. “What can I do for you, Ember?” Oberon asked. “I need a nomination for someone to take my place as the next in line for high priestess.” “Why is that?” he asked with frowned eyebrows.

Emberfall Woods was a mystical, moonlit sanctuary in the depths of winter, the air crisp and cold carrying the sharp, clean scent of frost, pine, and the faint, smoky undertone of a smoldering fire, the breeze light and biting, whispering through the towering pines and ancient oaks, their branches bare, the moonlight filtering through the skeletal canopy in silvery beams, casting a shimmering glow across the forest floor, the ground a frozen carpet of frost-kissed moss, pine needles, and scattered patches of snow, their colors muted under the silver light, the air humming with the distant hoot of an owl, the soft crunch of snow underfoot, and the gentle trickle of a nearby stream, its waters

Convent of Saint Amara – Midnight The convent was quiet, deep in the night. The stone walls felt cold, and the few candles in the hallway cast long, shaky shadows. All the sisters were asleep, dreaming of their prayers and duties. All but one. Sister Emilie lay in her narrow bed, too restless to sleep. Her thin nightgown was already twisted around her. She'd told the others she needed extra candles to read her holy books in the dark. She'd said her eyes weren't very good.

Deep beneath the structure, past the forgotten catacombs, there was a hidden chamber—carved from black stone, pulsing with unnatural energy. She had crept down there during a night storm when the wind howled so loud no one heard her footsteps. What she saw chilled her to the marrow. A massive altar, built from wolf bones, stood at the center. Upon it, a book bound in stitched flesh. Around it, candles burned with blood-colored flames, and a mural on the wall depicted the Void Moon—a full eclipse, behind which loomed a monstrous wolf-shaped entity made of stars and shadow. And in the center of the mural was a figure—the Ember Wolf, crowned in fire, his chest torn open to reveal a black pit.

As she stared out of the window, she wondered if Signoral had never been her true friend. “Why did she come to me?” Calista wondered aloud. Emily had claimed she was always in the same lecture hall, but Calista had never seen her until that night at the campfire, when Emily had been the life of the party. “What are you thinking?” Ranya asked, noticing her furrowed brow. “Signoral...” Calista began, using Emily’s given name for the first time since learning she was a Hamilton—a billionaire heiress who had chosen to run a lounge instead.

All other graves were of normal height but Rebecca's grave was a few inches taller. He understood that there has to be some reason behind it. He grabbed some garden tools from the house and started cleaning her grave. When he removed the dirt from her grave, he noticed that the grave had a lock. More like a door like thing. He broke the lock and opened the first door of the grave. His eyes widened when he realised that they had created a cupboard-like place on top of her grave. It has all her things, like Rebecca mentioned behind the photograph that everything will go to her grave.

It was heating up, the metal turning from dull bronze to angry red around her wrist. Ember made a pained sound, finally dropping the medallion onto the table with a metallic clatter. She staggered back, clutching her wrist, her breath coming in short gasps. "No," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Not yet. I'm not ready." The room shuddered again, more violently this time. A crack appeared in the ceiling, zigzagging across the plaster like lightning. Something was happening, something tied to Ember's memories, to the power struggling to break free of its constraints.

Her hair shimmered in the wind — no longer the girl they had bound to the pyre. “Then I’ll bring fire of my own,” she said. “Not to destroy… but to protect what they tried to burn out of me.” She faced the holy fire at the altar of the grove — the Eternal Ember, a flame that had never been extinguished since the earliest druids sang to the moon. She thrust her bare hands into it. Not a scream. Not a wince. The fire did not burn her. It crowned her. Wreathing about her wrists, her collarbones, her spine.

“Then we will stand guard at the world’s wound. We will not let Death Incarnate flood forth.” Suddenly, from within the rift, a shape emerged, limned in firelight. Six slender arms tipped with clawed hands, wings membranous and torn, eyes burning like embers. A guardian long thought sealed. Selene whispered, voice tight. “The Sentinel of Embers.” The creature stepped free, its form towering above them, each motion sending sparks drifting like ash. It opened its blazing maw and spoke, voice echoing as though from a distant realm: “You who bear the Emberstone’s crown… your fate is undone.”