Far beyond the glittering towers of Solaria Primus, beyond the reach of the Empire's golden banners, a different kind of light pulsed.
Dark. Rhythmic. Patient.
In the mountain city of Kar'Nath, buried in black stone and sealed under centuries of oath-bound silence, a circle of cloaked figures stood around a shallow pool of liquid obsidian. The surface shimmered—not with reflection, but with memory.
The tallest figure stepped forward, lowering a single gloved hand.
"It stirs again," the voice rasped. "The flame that should have perished."
"The Empire calls it back," said another. "But it is not theirs to control."
A younger, sharper voice cut through the gloom. "Do we know who it chose?"
Silence.
The pool did not reveal a face—only a flare. A brilliant crimson burst that obscured identity.
"No," the first said. "But we will."
In the depths of the chamber, an ancient creature shifted behind iron bindings, scales glowing faintly in the dark.
"The Flamebound awakens," it whispered.
Across the continent, in a fortress nestled in the Stormcoast Wastes, warlords gathered. Their banners were frayed, their blades bloodied—but their eyes glinted with purpose.
One slammed a fist on the map table.
"Find the source," he snarled. "Before the Empire breeds another legend."
Back in the desert empire of Ash'Zareth, sand priests burned old prophecies beneath starlight, and their queen watched from a tower of glass.
"Another heir," she murmured. "Let the fires rise again—so we may smother them."
In every shadowed corner of the world, old enemies stirred, linked not by alliance but by fear.
They did not know who.
They did not know how.
But they knew this:
The bearer of the First Flame had awakened.
And they would find him.
And they would extinguish him.
Forever.