Sometimes a Snap's power isn't within itself, but in the hold it has over humans. The fear of leaving it unattended. The hesitation to stoke it.

Ember is rarely found in roaring flames. It keeps instead to the quiet that comes after, when fire has forgotten its fury but not its heat.

Dying at the edges of Poppy, Mid-Norfolk or Bure Valley. Lingering in the ash beneath suppers long since shared. Glowing in hearts after consuming passion exhausts. Smouldering in hearths long after the laughter has gone. Hissing high in beacons when sunrise renders the signal obsolete. Dwindling as a memory in every fireplace that has ever warmed a home.

Yet embers are not always left in ashes. Sometimes it is carried. From one pair of hands to the next, it passes quietly through generations. A hopeful coal, cupped against the wind. Every story retold, every recipe remembered, every hunt shared, every song sung before it is forgotten becomes another breath to carry the ember on.

This Snaps scales are cracked like cooling charcoal, shot through with amber veins of molten magma. The yellow flicker of his white-hot eyes brightens with every passing breath. At its heart sits a single coal that never seems to go dark.

Ember serves as an unsettling warning. The smallest glow, tended with care, is enough to carry a traveller through the dark. Left unchecked, that same glow can outrun man and set the earth ablaze.

So next time you're somewhere the land feels ready to burn, look out.