The Ember Forge stood silent behind him, its great doors sealed once more. Alaric descended the black-stone steps slowly, the Ashcall Gauntlets pulsing with quiet power at his sides. His arms felt heavier, but stronger. The Core within him—once a flicker—now burned like a steady torch in his chest.
The wind in the mountains had changed. It no longer carried the scent of char and sulfur alone, but something else.
Rot.
Down in the valley below, the skies had darkened. Black clouds gathered unnaturally fast, spiraling like smoke into the heavens. Thunder growled—though there was no lightning.
Alaric paused on the final step, narrowing his eyes.
Then he heard it. Screaming.
He sprinted down the winding path, his boots kicking up dust and cinders. As he broke through the treeline, the valley opened before him—and chaos unfolded beneath a blood-red sky.
A small caravan had been attacked. Carts were overturned. Horses lay dead, burned or torn apart. A group of villagers huddled together behind a ring of scorched earth, fending off something that moved with shadow-born hunger.
Three Voidspawn.
Twisted beasts, spawned from corrupted Cores, mouths like torn leather, eyes like coal. They moved like smoke, shifting form between claws, tendrils, and ash.
Alaric didn't hesitate.
He raised a hand. The Ashcall Gauntlets responded instantly, their runes flaring. Fire coiled around his arm like a living serpent.
"Burn," he whispered.
A jet of focused flame shot from his palm, searing through the nearest Voidspawn. It screeched and dissolved into black mist.
The others turned on him, their movements frantic, hungry.
He charged.
One lunged. He ducked low, flame wreathing his legs as he slid beneath its reach, then drove a gauntleted fist into its core. The fire erupted inside the creature, lighting it from within until it burst in a rain of ash.
The third creature hesitated.
Alaric's eyes burned like twin embers. "Run."
It didn't. It screamed and lunged—but it didn't reach him.
A spear of pure flame arced through the air and impaled it mid-leap. It vanished before it hit the ground.
Alaric turned.
Behind him stood a tall woman in a cloak of green and bronze, holding a burning staff. Her face was tattooed with the old runes of the Verdant Pact—keepers of balance.
"You're the Flamebearer," she said, stepping forward. "The Forge accepted you."
Alaric nodded, wary. "And you are?"
"Maeryn of the Pact. Sentinel of the Wildwatch. I felt your awakening." Her eyes flicked to the villagers. "You're needed."
Alaric walked to the frightened survivors. A woman clutched a child to her chest, eyes wide.
"You—" she whispered. "You're a Corebearer…"
"I am," Alaric said, kneeling. "You're safe now. But the Voidspawn… they were too close to the Forge."
Maeryn nodded grimly. "The corruption spreads faster now. The World-Core is weakening. And there's worse."
She pulled a blackened crystal from her satchel—cracked and oozing with shadow. Alaric felt his Core recoil at its presence.
"This belonged to a Voidbinder," she said. "One of the Fallen. Sighted two days east of here—near the ruins of Cael'dun."
Alaric's expression hardened. "Cael'dun… That was one of the old Crucible temples."
"Yes," she said. "They're searching for something. Relics, maybe. Keys to the World-Core."
Alaric looked down at his gauntlets. Fire shimmered just beneath the obsidian plating.
"I'll go," he said. "If they're after the Crucibles, I have to stop them."
"You'll need allies," Maeryn said. "The Voidbinders don't work alone."
Alaric's gaze turned east, toward the crumbling silhouette of Cael'dun far in the distance.
"Then we find them. And we fight."
That night, under a shattered sky, Alaric sat by a quiet fire. The villagers had moved on, escorted by Maeryn's people. He was alone now—alone but no longer lost.
He held the Core shard in his palm. It glowed softly, warm and patient.
He had survived the Forge.
Now, the war for Elythria was beginning.
And the fire within him had only just begun to burn brightly.