A pale dawn breeze curled through the Hall of Unity's grand windows as Sylas paced the balcony, feathers brushing the marble balustrade. He gazed eastward, where the sun's first light painted the sky in shades of rose and gold—yet amid the pastel dawn, a single ember-red wisp of wind drifted against the current, glowing like a torch carried by an unseen hand.
Sylas's breath caught. He summoned a gentle gale to cradle the ember-wisp and guided it down to the plaza, where Lior, Corwin, Bram, and Riven stood awaiting his herald. The ember-wisp coalesced into a swirling ribbon of fire and breeze, carrying faint ash-gray motes that whispered of distant flames.
Lior's flame shard flared at his breast. "Smoke and magic—this is no natural wind," he said, studying the ember's dance. He held out a hand, and a spark drifted from the ribbon into his palm, cooling only slightly before vanishing in a wisp of smoke. "Such embers mark the forge-fires of war."
Corwin pressed his conch to his lips and exhaled. The tide within it glowed silver as he listened. "I hear the echo of rushing waters, drowned beneath that ember-wind," he murmured. "A hidden river may run through those flames—one we have yet to chart."
Bram tapped his earthroot staff on the marble floor. Roots quivered beneath the courtyard, as though the land itself trembled at the omen. "Where wind and fire go before us, earth must follow," he said. "I feel tremors stirring beyond the Eastern Wastes—ancient bedrock shifting in need of our guard."
Riven lifted the Wellspring lantern, its crystal seed glowing pure white. "This ember-gale is a summons," he concluded. "A call for vigilance at a frontier we thought secure. We must depart at once for the Emberthorn Highlands, where legends speak of volcano-spires and hidden forges long abandoned… until now."
Under the Living Seed's watchful branches, King Aldren and the four realm-lords gathered in the Hall. At Sylas's report, the Emberwood banner fluttered with warning; the Tide Provinces declared their fleets ready; the Skyguard mustered on their cloud-masts; and the Earthwardens secured the terraces for Corwin and Bram's return.
Queen Maeris spoke first: "Let wind carry our scouts swiftly across the high passes. No ember may escape our sight."
Lady Neris dipped her chalice into the Wellspring basin: "Let every river-mouth sound the alarm at the first spark of flame."
The Earth Chancellor laid his hammer on the table: "Let our root-wards seal every hidden fault in mountain and quarry."
King Aldren raised Lior's ember-tipped dagger: "And let flame—guided by the pure light of the Heartstone—clear every forge of darkness."
That afternoon, the guardians and Riven set out: Sylas soaring ahead on wind-currents, mapping the high passes; Corwin's river flotilla patrolling the eastern waterways; Bram's earthroot scouts carving living beacons along the ridge; and Lior and Riven striking into the Emberthorn trail, following the ember-wind's faint glow.
As twilight fell, they stood before the first of Emberthorn's shattered volcano-spires—a blackened tower of basalt scarred by rivers of lava long cooled. In its hollow throat, the ember-gale coalesced into a flaming sigil etched against the night sky: the broken circle of the old Cult, rekindled.
Lior knelt and pressed his dagger to the mountain's mouth. The rock pulsed beneath his touch. "They have returned," he whispered. Sylas's wind cleared ash from Bram's roots, revealing fresh footprints in the dust. Corwin summoned a pool of mist that reflected their four faces in steely blue. Riven's lantern flared as if in welcome—and warning.
Together, they exchanged solemn glances: four hearts bound as one, ready to confront this rekindled fire at the very forge of Aetherion's future. The ember-gale had found its flame—and they would stand guard, come wind or storm.