Where the Emberblooms Burn Bright

Where the Emberblooms Burn Bright

Gavin

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I was Elara, a Steward, a healer blessed with the Hearthstone Spirit. Years ago, I saved Governor Thorne' s life, sharing my essence, mending him when no one else could, bringing life back to his dying state. Now, I carried his child, a powerful new life blossoming within me. But then Isabelle Hayes, ambitious and cold, whispered poison into his ear. She convinced Thorne my child' s nascent power was a threat, unnatural. He betrayed me, ordering the destruction of the sacred Emberblooms our child's Spirit needed, imprisoning me, twisting my purpose into a weapon against me. Isabelle falsely claimed I was hiding the Spirit of my unborn child, faking a mysterious illness. Thorne, blinded by fear and manipulation, cruelly demanded I give him what was already lost. My baby, its Spirit already gone because he destroyed the Emberblooms, lay still within me. He refused to believe me, beating and torturing me. For every phantom symptom Isabelle displayed, he executed another of my people. I watched, helpless, as my entire community, including my sister, was massacred. Finally, he ordered a surgeon to cut the Spirit from my chest, ending my life on the desecrated land of my ancestors. How could the man I saved become such a monster? How could he sacrifice everything – my child, my people, me – for a lie? As my life faded, stolen for a Spirit that wasn't there, a raw, immense injustice consumed me. Had he truly forgotten I gave him a piece of my own Spirit, the very thing keeping him alive? But as my body burned, tossed like trash, something ancient and furious ignited. The earth itself revolted, refusing to let my death be in vain. I felt a surge, a rebirth from the flames, fused with immense power. I am Elara, the healer no more. I am the Reckoning; justice will be swift and absolute.

Introduction

I was Elara, a Steward, a healer blessed with the Hearthstone Spirit.

Years ago, I saved Governor Thorne' s life, sharing my essence, mending him when no one else could, bringing life back to his dying state.

Now, I carried his child, a powerful new life blossoming within me.

But then Isabelle Hayes, ambitious and cold, whispered poison into his ear.

She convinced Thorne my child' s nascent power was a threat, unnatural.

He betrayed me, ordering the destruction of the sacred Emberblooms our child's Spirit needed, imprisoning me, twisting my purpose into a weapon against me.

Isabelle falsely claimed I was hiding the Spirit of my unborn child, faking a mysterious illness.

Thorne, blinded by fear and manipulation, cruelly demanded I give him what was already lost.

My baby, its Spirit already gone because he destroyed the Emberblooms, lay still within me.

He refused to believe me, beating and torturing me.

For every phantom symptom Isabelle displayed, he executed another of my people.

I watched, helpless, as my entire community, including my sister, was massacred.

Finally, he ordered a surgeon to cut the Spirit from my chest, ending my life on the desecrated land of my ancestors.

How could the man I saved become such a monster?

How could he sacrifice everything – my child, my people, me – for a lie?

As my life faded, stolen for a Spirit that wasn't there, a raw, immense injustice consumed me.

Had he truly forgotten I gave him a piece of my own Spirit, the very thing keeping him alive?

But as my body burned, tossed like trash, something ancient and furious ignited.

The earth itself revolted, refusing to let my death be in vain.

I felt a surge, a rebirth from the flames, fused with immense power.

I am Elara, the healer no more. I am the Reckoning; justice will be swift and absolute.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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