Kael barely had time to breathe before the shadows moved.
The walls of the sanctum shimmered—and from the green-lit corners, twisted figures emerged. Not men. Not anymore. Their armor was fused to charred flesh, and their eyes burned with soulless fire.
"Flamewrought," Lysaria gasped, retreating a step. "He's using the old magic. Forbidden magic."
Kael didn't wait. "Form ranks! Protect the mages!"
The creatures rushed in with screeches that pierced the soul. Their blades dripped with ember-venom, a corruption known only in the darkest corners of flame lore.
Kael swung his sword upward, his fire clashing against the corrupted heat of the Flamewrought. Sparks erupted, and the creature hissed, lunging again with inhuman speed. Kael barely dodged in time.
"Elara! Watch the rear!"
"I see them!" she shouted, ducking beneath a curved axe. Her blade found the creature's throat—and to her horror, it didn't die. It simply hissed, turned, and lunged again.
"They don't feel pain!" she yelled.
Kael gritted his teeth. "Then we burn them until they do."
Lysaria lifted both hands and chanted in a tongue older than the rebellion itself. Blue-white fire exploded in a circle around the Flamewrought, searing them to ash where they stood. But for each that fell, two more emerged from the dark.
The sanctum had become a trap. A living tomb designed to crush their spirits before they ever reached the Sovereign.
Kael knew it.
He could feel the Sovereign's presence now, like a flame pressing into his mind. Watching. Mocking.
"You bring them here, fire-born," the voice whispered through the air. "And so they die with you."
Kael staggered. "He's in my head…"
"Focus!" Lysaria snapped, grabbing his shoulder. "You are the Flame's vessel—not his pawn. Control it!"
Kael closed his eyes for a second. Just one. He reached inside, deep into the ember pulsing in his chest. The Forsaken Flame surged—not wild, but focused, like a sun behind glass.
His eyes opened, glowing bright orange.
And then Kael moved.
He didn't slash—he danced through the battlefield, fire following his every strike. One Flamewrought turned to ash. Then another. His flame didn't just burn; it purified, breaking the spell that bound the creatures to life.
"Elara—cut where it burns white!" he called.
"Gladly!"
With precision and coordination, the rebels began to gain ground. Fire lit the darkness, driving the shadows back. Even the twisted halls of the sanctum seemed to recoil from their defiance.
Finally, the last Flamewrought fell—shrieking as it dissolved into smoke.
Silence returned.
But the sanctum was forever changed. The walls were blackened with soot, the air heavy with loss. A dozen rebels had fallen. More were injured. And the worst was yet to come.
Kael turned to Lysaria. "How many more?"
"Too many," she said quietly. "And the deeper we go, the stronger his corruption becomes."
Elara wiped her blade clean. "Then we stop going blind. We split a scouting group. Find the best path. Strike hard. Strike fast."
Kael nodded. "We leave in ten."
He walked to a broken altar near the far wall—once a shrine to the Flame's purity. Now it was cracked and defiled, coated in ash and soot. He placed his palm on it.
"I will not let you twist this gift," he murmured. "Not anymore."
The altar flared once, as if in answer. And deep below their feet, something stirred—a heat ancient and slumbering, called forth by Kael's vow.
In the next chamber, the Sovereign opened his eyes.
And smiled.