Amazon: Shield-Bearer Supreme by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Amazon-Shield-Bearer-Supreme-1258573177

Amazon: Shield-Bearer Supreme ANIMATION

The Ember That Walks Like a Man

The forest had begun to smell of cinders.

It was not the smoke of a passing campfire or the fragrant plume from a druid’s incense burner. This was an older scent, heavy as old grief, worming through the roots of ancient trees like the whispered threat of a coming fever. Birds fled the canopy the morning it began, not in scattered flurries but in a single unified exodus, as if some unspoken command had pulsed through the branches.

And the Amazon—tall, flame-haired, and carved of strength the way a sculptor carves figures into marble—noticed immediately.

Her name was Cyralyn, though few dared to use it. Most called her simply Amazon, as if the title itself carried more weight than any name. She bore a greataxe on her back, the blade wrapped in leather scarred from a hundred battles. A jagged scar slashed across her left shoulder, a trophy from a wyvern she’d slain nearly a decade ago, yet she walked with the calm poise of someone who feared nothing the forest could offer.

She was not alone today.

Trailing several cautious steps behind her was an unlikely ally: Etrius, a scholar-sorcerer whose pale, anxious demeanor made him resemble a ghost haunting his own body. His long coat snagged constantly on brambles, and each time he freed himself he muttered a new complaint beneath his breath.

“You walk too quickly,” Etrius said at last, panting as he caught up with her. “Do all warriors attempt to outrun their own allies, or is this a personal tradition?”

Cyralyn did not turn. “I slow my pace for no one. Keep up, or be left behind. The trees grow nervous. Whatever disturbs them will not wait for your breath to return.”

“Forests don’t grow nervous,” he insisted.

She slid him a look over her shoulder. “You speak many languages, sorcerer. Perhaps try learning the one spoken by the earth.”

Etrius grumbled, tugging at his collar. “And perhaps the earth might try speaking plainly for once.”

Yet despite his words, he stayed close. Too close. Already she could feel the heat of his magical aura brushing at her with featherlike insistence, like a moth drawn to torchlight. He fascinated her—not for his cleverness, nor his magical talent, but because he seemed entirely unaware of how easily his curiosity could kill him.

They continued deeper into the forest, where the air grew warmer, and the leaves above dimmed until they resembled dying embers clinging to black branches. The sky beyond had turned faintly orange, as though fire had begun smearing its fingers across the horizon.

Etrius paused. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” Cyralyn murmured. “A tremor.”

The ground shifted again beneath them, not violently, but insistently, the way an enormous creature might breathe beneath soil that barely contained it. Birds did not return. No insects hummed. Even the wind refused to trespass.

Cyralyn crouched, pressing her palm to the earth.

“Something stirs beneath.”

“Something?” Etrius whispered. “Or someone?”

Before she could answer, the ground ahead burst apart in a shower of glowing stones. A roar—deep, metallic, volcanic in its fury—shook the silence to pieces.

What emerged was a golem, but unlike any earth-bound sentinel Cyralyn had seen. This one was formed of molten rock, its body glowing like half-solid fire. Lava dripped from its forearms, sizzling against the dirt. Its torso pulsed with light, like magma exhaled through stone ribs.

“By the Nine—” Etrius covered his mouth. “It shouldn’t be here. Lava elementals belong near volcanoes, not forests!”

“Yet here it stands.” Cyralyn rose to her full height, drawing her greataxe. “Creatures go where something calls them. So who summoned you, fire-born thing?”

The golem’s only response was a blast of heat so intense the leaves above curled withered and fell to ash.

Etrius swore under his breath. “Perhaps we should retreat. Strategically. With haste.”

Cyralyn smirked, her eyes gleaming like polished amber. “Retreat is a suggestion for men who have nothing worth fighting for.”

“That is—quite boldly put.”

She turned to him, leaning close enough that he felt her breath stir his hair. “Stand your ground, sorcerer. I have use for you yet.”

His cheeks flushed. “I—I did not realize you intended to keep me alive.”

“You misunderstand. If you die now, I lose my one advantage: the mind that tel
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