Page 284 of Emylia

Fire obeyed.

All four archers erupted into flame—not burned, not singed—consumed. Their bodies erupting in pillars of flame so violent the night itself recoiled.

Their screams split the sky, high and unholy. A twisted symphony of agony that bloomed like music in my ears.

I didn’t flinch.

I smiled.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then I turned.

The army circled. Dozens—closing in. Blades drawn. Shields raised. Eyes wide with a terror they never expected to feel.

They thought I was a girl.

They thought they could break me.

Kill me.

Cage me.

They were wrong.

I lifted my hands—slow, sovereign—heat blistering the earth beneath me.

Blood steamed from my skin.

My voice was barely a whisper.

And still, it shook the world.

“You took my home,” I said. “You took my kin. You tried to take me. Take the man I love.”

Flames howled in response, swirling into a cyclone of wrath.

Fire licked the sky. Wind screamed around me, wild and feral, like it knew war had come.

I stepped forward.

And the earth answered.

Everything burned.

Flame exploded from my chest in a shockwave of blinding light and agony.

Warriors screamed. Horses reared. Armor melted to flesh. Eyes boiled. Skin split open like fruit beneath a blade.

They ran—some of them.

Not fast enough.

Some didn’t even get the chance to scream.

They died on their knees. Or standing. Or already on fire.

I was not merciful.

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