The Last Ember

The wind carried dust through the hollow streets of Ashbourne. Once, people had called this a village. Now it was only bones: sagging roofs, broken fences, doors swinging loose on rusted hinges. The fields were gray and cracked, like old skin. Even the well in the square gave nothing but mud. Hunger lived here now. It sat in every doorway. It followed the children, thin as shadows.The elders had called for the Choosing. Their decree rang out like the toll of a cracked bell: Ashbourne cannot survive divided. One leader must rise. One voice, one hand, one staff. And so the villagers gathered. And so the sisters faced each other in the square. Mira, the elder, stood as though she had already been carved into legend. Chin lifted, eyes sharp enough to cut. Her hair was tied back hard, not a strand free. She was the one people looked at and thought: If I follow her, I might live. Lena, two years younger, looked nothing like that. Her face was softer, her eyes steady but kind. She smiled at the children peeking out from behind their mothers’ skirts, even now. She looked like someone who would shield you, not command you. The staff of leadership lay across the elders’ hands. By nightfall it would belong to one of them.

The First Trial: The Word

“Speak,” croaked the eldest. “Tell us why the future of Ashbourne belongs to you.” Mira didn’t wait. She never did. Her words came like strikes from a hammer. “We stand on the edge of ruin. I will not waste breath on comfort. We need strength. Discipline. Ruthlessness, if it must be. I will carve a future from what remains—and if the weak cannot endure, they will not drag us down.” Gasps. Murmurs. A mother clutched her son tighter. Yet some men nodded, hungry for certainty. Lena stepped forward slowly. She looked out at the villagers—faces she had grown up with, neighbors who had once laughed at her childish braids—and she spoke with quiet weight. “We have been broken,” she said. “But not destroyed. We cannot survive by fear alone. If we forget who we are, then we are already gone. We ration carefully. We care for the sick, the children. We rebuild—not just endure.” Her words left silence in their wake. Someone whispered, “She speaks true.” Another: “Her father’s kindness lives in her.” But from Mira’s side came mutters: “Compassion won’t stop raiders.” “Soft girl.” Lena’s lips pressed tight. She wanted to add more—to remind them of Mira’s temper as a child, how she had broken her doll just to prove she was stronger. But she swallowed the memory. The square was not the place. The first trial ended with no victor.

The Second Trial: The Test

By nightfall, torches lit the square. Shadows stretched long and thin as the sisters sat across from a carved board etched with rivers, fields, and stones that stood for people. The Test. Strategy as destiny. Mira played with fire. Sacrifices everywhere—her tokens fell, but her territory swelled with every strike. Each turn ended with her looking up, daring Lena to match her. “Do you hesitate even here?” she asked once, as Lena paused over a move. “That’s why you’ll lose.” Lena met her eyes. “I hesitate because these aren’t stones. They’re people.” Mira laughed under her breath. “And people are only useful if they serve the greater plan.” Lena placed her stone anyway, firm, protecting her side of the board. When the final stone fell, Mira’s side gleamed with captured ground. Lena’s markers were fewer, but still standing together. The elders whispered. Mira had won the board. Victory, yes. But victory that tasted of ashes.

The Final Trial: The Choice

They were led into the storeroom. Dust thick in the air, the smell of old grain sharp. In the corner: two sacks of food. That was all.“Decide,” said the eldest. “Show us your vision.” Lena’s throat tightened. She touched the rough burlap with her fingertips.“We divide it,” she said. “Every household receives a portion. We plant what little we can so next season has hope. We save the most for the sick and the children. We endure together.” Mira’s answer was steel. She swung the sacks onto her shoulder, grain spilling like tiny bones.“They come with me. I will guard them. I will decide who eats, who fights, who lives. Order will save us, not sentiment. No one questions. No one resists.” Gasps. “Mira,” Lena whispered, desperate. “That isn’t leadership. That’s—” “Power,” Mira cut her off. Her eyes gleamed. “And power is the only thing that will keep raiders from burning us alive. Do you think your kindness fills a belly? Do you think it stops a blade?” Lena’s eyes stung. “You don’t want to save them. You just want to win.” Mira’s silence was the truest answer. The elders raised Mira’s hand. The staff of leadership was pressed into her grip.

The Crown of Ash

The square erupted. Some cheered, some wept. Mira lifted the staff high, her face shining with triumph. But when she searched for Lena’s gaze across the firelight, she found no pride, no bond. Only sorrow. Only distance. Lena turned away. She walked through the crowd without looking back. The villagers parted silently as she went. Mira remembered, suddenly, when they were children—when Lena had slipped her half of a crust of bread under the blanket during a winter famine. Mira had eaten it without thanks. Now she realized: Lena had always been the one to share. Mira had always been the one to take. Something twisted sharp in her chest. The staff in her hand weighed heavy, not holy. The grain on her back felt like chains. She had told herself she hungered to save Ashbourne. But as her sister’s shadow vanished into the dark, the truth cracked through her: she had only ever hungered to win. The cheers around her rang hollow, like echoes in a tomb.

Aftermath

That night, Mira sat in the council hall. Alone. The staff beside her, the sacks locked away. She lit a single candle. Its flame trembled, weak, as though even fire no longer wanted to burn for Ashbourne. The walls whispered with the voices of elders long gone. Her father’s voice came unbidden: Take care of her, Mira. She looks up to you. She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. Outside, the village was quiet. Too quiet. Victory had not filled their bellies, nor had it soothed their fears. And Lena was gone. The bond that had carried her through every famine, every raid, every whispered promise in the dark—it was snapped. Mira pressed her forehead against the staff. It was cold, lifeless wood. And the hunger inside her? Louder. Always louder. Beyond the gates, Lena walked into the night with nothing but her dignity. And Mira, left with everything she thought she wanted, knew the cruelest truth: her sister, not she, was the freer of them both.