By the time they reached the Blackridge Pass, the snow had begun to fall.
Not the clean, white flurries of old winter songs, but ashen flakes—heavy and cold, smelling faintly of iron. Drex trudged forward through the slush, every step marked by the weight of his bloodwrought blade.
Kaelith moved like a ghost beside him, staff in hand, cloak pulled tight against the wind.
"The Ebon Circle is two days east," she said. "Hiding behind the walls of a temple called Sarnfell. Not marked on maps. They erase what they want hidden."
"What are they?" Drex asked.
She looked ahead. "High arcanists. Theocrats. Murderers. They were once advisors to the emperor, but now they serve only themselves. They kept the secret of Rathmaelos. They fed the flame that lives inside you."
Drex clenched his fists.
He would see them burn.
---
That night, they made camp in the broken shell of a stone bridge that once spanned a mountain chasm. Beneath the stars, Kaelith traced ancient glyphs into the ground—wards, she said, to mask their presence.
Drex watched the snow fall through the gaps in the stone.
"I remember dying," he said suddenly.
Kaelith didn't look up. "What do you mean?"
"In Valebend. During the siege. I felt the blade shatter in my hand. I felt steel in my gut. I heard my own heart stop."
She met his eyes now, solemn. "You did die. Part of you, anyway."
"And the rest?"
"Consumed," she said quietly. "By it."
Drex was silent a long time. Then: "I still see their faces. The men who followed me. The ones who bled for me."
"And now," she replied, "you'll make them mean something."
---
The Approach to Sarnfell
Two days later, they reached the edge of a forest of stone. Jagged towers of black rock rose from the frozen ground like the teeth of some ancient beast. Wind howled through them, carrying whispers.
Sarnfell lay ahead—hidden in a ravine, choked in mist.
Drex crouched beside Kaelith, peering down the slope. Shapes moved through the fog—cloaked figures, armored sentries. A temple built of obsidian, with stained-glass windows showing scenes of fire and sacrifice.
He narrowed his eyes. "How many?"
Kaelith whispered, "At least thirty on the surface. More below. The Circle hides its sanctum beneath the temple floor."
"And the one we want?"
"They call him Magister Corven. A scribe of souls. He knows the ritual that bound Rathmaelos to your blood."
Drex stood. "Then he dies tonight."
---
The Descent
They moved like shadows—Drex with blade drawn, Kaelith weaving silence and misdirection with every gesture. They struck fast and silent, cutting down outer sentries before alarms could ring.
Inside, the temple reeked of incense and rot. Candles burned in copper skulls. Statues of forgotten gods loomed from alcoves, blind and bloodstained.
They found the staircase behind the altar—a spiral of stone descending into dark.
Below, the sanctum pulsed with arcane light.
And waiting at its heart was a man robed in crimson and gold, eyes glowing faintly, his hands dipped in silver ink.
Magister Corven.
"So," he said, smiling coldly. "The cursed knight returns. With a heretic at his side."
Drex stepped forward. "You wrote the rite that killed my brothers."
"I wrote the future," Corven replied. "You were merely its vessel."
Drex said nothing more.
He moved.
The battle that followed was swift and savage. Corven summoned flames, shadows, illusions—but none could stop the will of the blade that thirsted for his name. Kaelith's spells unraveled wards as fast as they rose.
And Drex, burning from within, drove his sword through the magister's chest.
The temple trembled as Corven died, screaming not in pain—but in joy.
"You fools," he gasped. "You've only broken the first seal…"
Then he went still.
---
Aftermath
The sanctum began to collapse.
Drex and Kaelith escaped just as the temple cracked and fell into itself, swallowed by the mountain. The snow churned with ash and ruin.
They stood above the chasm, silent.
"One down," Drex said.
Kaelith nodded. "Six more."
He looked at her, eyes hard. "Then we keep going."