"The brightest flames are born not from peace, but from ruin."
The wind howled across the dead plains of the western reach — a place the maps had long since erased.
Dr. Lyra Voss tightened her cloak around her shoulders as her boots sank into the dust. Each step kicked up ghosts of sand and soot, fragments of what used to be homes.
Once, this had been a Dominion research town.
Now it was a graveyard.
Her visor blinked faintly, tracking the coordinates she'd been given: Sector 9C — Old Auralis Outpost.
That was where the contact waited — or was supposed to.
Lyra stopped by a half-collapsed building, scanning the shadows. "Hello?"
Only wind answered.
She pulled out a small device — a resonance beacon encoded with the Dominion sigil. When she pressed it, it flickered, projecting faint light across the ground.
And then — a shimmer.
A hologram flickered to life, revealing a Dominion scientist's log, old and corrupted.
"…project resonance—origin unknown… pre-Source energy anomaly… dangerous, unstable…"
The file stuttered, the voice fragmented and warped. But even broken, the message was clear — this wasn't new Dominion research. It was something older. Something stolen.
Lyra's hands trembled. "Father… what did you find?"
She searched the terminal again and uncovered a second file labeled 'Ecliptic Protocol.' When she opened it, the screen filled with diagrams — resonance cores dissected, veins of energy siphoned from living beings with pointed ears. Vials of blood being siphoned and a golden liquid being extracted from it. As she looked deeper in the file the golden liquid was able to be mass produced and she watched a video that changed everything.
Her eyes widened in horror.
The Dominion hadn't created resonance.
They'd harvested it.
The air shifted.
Lyra turned — the faint scrape of boots echoing off stone.
A voice, smooth and calm: "You shouldn't have found that."
From the shadows, figures emerged — black armor marked with silver insignias, cloaks rippling. Dominion assassins.
Their leader stepped forward, helmet glinting crimson.
"Dr. Lyra Voss. By decree of the Radiant Council, you are charged with treason and information theft. Surrender the data."
Lyra's grip tightened on the beacon. "You mean the truth?"
The leader tilted his head. "That's not a word we use anymore."
He lunged.
Lyra moved faster — fire bursting from her hands in golden streams. The heat distorted the air, searing through the first assassin's armor. Another swung from her left — she ducked, spun, and ignited a wave of flame that hurled him back into a crumbling wall.
Her resonance pulsed — Gold Grade A Special Ability: Phoenix.
Each wound she took sealed itself in seconds, embers stitching her skin closed.
But there were too many.
Bolts of shadowlight sliced through the air. One grazed her shoulder, sending her sprawling. Her vision blurred as her flames sputtered out.
She forced herself up, coughing smoke. "Not… today."
The assassins closed in.
She thrust her palm toward the ground — fire surged outward in a blinding circle.
The explosion ripped through the ruins.
When the smoke cleared, the assassins were gone.
And Lyra was running.
For three days, Lyra crossed the desert, following stars and broken Dominion roads. Her rations ran out by the second day. Her cloak tore. Her boots cracked.
Every night, she saw the assassins again — silhouettes in the dunes, closing the distance.
Every morning, she ran farther.
By the third night, her body was failing. Her fire flickered low — healing still worked, but the exhaustion cut deeper than the wounds.
Then, she saw it: the faint, distant glow of a city.
Halvyr.
She almost cried.
Halvyr looked nothing like she remembered. Dominion banners hung over every archway, drones scanned every street, and the people moved like ghosts.
Lyra kept her hood low, slipping through crowds, ducking into alleys when patrols passed.
Her body screamed for rest.
But she had one goal — find help.
In an old marketplace, hidden behind rusted stalls, she found it: a broken Dominion relay tower repurposed into a rebel comm station.
Old Ashes of the Sun marks lined the wall — faded, forgotten.
She activated the terminal with trembling hands, rerouting its signal through buried lines.
"Please…" she whispered. "If anyone hears this… my name is Dr. Lyra Voss. I have information about the Source — its true nature. I need extraction."
The light blinked once. Twice. Then steadied.
Somewhere, across the wasteland, the Ashes had heard her call.
Six days passed.
Lyra hid in empty homes, sewers, and storage sheds. Her food was gone, her energy dwindling.
The Dominion had cut off every exit. Assassins roamed the streets, whispering her name into comms, dragging anyone who might have helped her into the light.
She burned through the night to stay alive — her body a flickering beacon of defiance.
By the sixth night, her wounds no longer healed so fast. Her fire trembled weakly, barely enough to light the dark.
And then, when hope was a whisper —
Her comm sparked.
"—Hello? Hello?! This is Lyra Voss! Who—who am I speaking to?"
A voice responded saying,
"Dr. Voss, this is Captain Vexen of the Ashes of the Sun. We're here for extraction. Confirm your coordinates."
Her heart leapt. "Thank the Source— I'm near the—"
A crash thundered through the room.
The door exploded inward.
Her comm flew from her hand as a blade of black steel cut through the air, slicing the console clean in two.
Before she could react, a gloved hand gripped her throat, slamming her against the wall.
The assassin's voice was low and venomous. "You've run far enough."
Her flames flared instinctively — bright, defiant. She swung, searing his arm, but he didn't flinch. With brutal precision, he struck her in the stomach.
Pain bloomed white. Her vision spun.
The last thing she saw was the assassin's mask reflecting her own fading flame — and the smirk beneath it.
Then darkness.
The assassin knelt, pressing two fingers to her pulse before lifting her limp form over his shoulder.
"Target secured," he said into his comm, voice cold.
"Prepare the transport. The Phoenix has been caged."
He stepped over the shattered beacon — its light flickering weakly, transmitting one last burst of static before dying completely.
"Hope is not the absence of fear. It's the strength to keep running when fear becomes the air you breathe."