The wind didn't whisper. It screamed.
It clawed through the broken chapel, tearing the last shreds of stained glass from the stone-framed windows, scattering ash like starlight across the altar. The rift still hung above them—a bleeding eye in the sky, dripping light too old, too knowing, too wrong for this world.
And beneath it stood the Ashborn—seven figures wreathed in silent fire. Monuments of war. Vestiges of forgotten battles. Guardians of a dying flame.
Dexter stood among them, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching near the hilt of Valebinder, the sword that had once cut down PRIMAL. The blade vibrated faintly on his back—not in warning, but in recognition. Something familiar, yet unknowable, had entered the chapel.
The figure at the altar didn't move. Not at first.
He looked like a shadow had chosen to wear skin. His cloak shimmered, woven of black silk and whispers, etched with glyphs that writhed like worms in a dying fire. His face was half-hidden, the other half pale and etched with veins of cold ash, glowing faintly like dying coals beneath frost. He was both present and not, like a smudge on a page of reality that refused to fade.
"You're not from here," Dexter said. His voice was calm, too calm. It had to be. "And you're not a friend."
The figure lifted his head slowly, as if the act defied gravity. "Neither enemy nor friend," he replied, voice deep, smooth, worn thin by centuries. "I am… necessary."
A hiss of breath escaped from Nyara, the First Spark, her flame-bound eyes narrowing as she stepped forward. Her fire licked the air like a serpent disturbed. "You speak like a prophet," she said, her tone sharp as obsidian. "But you smell like rot."
The figure's lips curled into something that might have once been a smile. "I am rot, Flameborn. I am what remains… when fire forgets."
Dexter didn't move, but the heat in his chest stirred. "You know who I am."
The figure extended one hand.
The Codex Sigilum appeared—unfolding midair like a wound in space. Bound in brass and sinew, its pages were taut, made of stretched skin that shimmered with twitching glyphs. Black fire bled from the book's spine as if it resented being opened.
"You are Dexter Vitron," the warlock said. "Bearer of borrowed fire. Slayer of PRIMAL. Inheritor of a throne you do not yet see."
Something cold gripped Dexter's spine. The chapel suddenly felt smaller.
"I'm not interested in your riddles."
"Then allow me to offer you a curse."
The warlock whispered something—words from a dead language—and the Codex screamed.
Not out loud. Inside Dexter's skull.
The vision hit him like a hammer to the soul.
He saw PRIMAL fall again, but from above this time—his flame a dying scream swallowed by silence. A shattered throne of obsidian and bone stood at the edge of a void, cracked by fire but still intact. On it sat… him. Older. Crowned in fire. His face hollowed by grief.
Not triumphant. Broken.
He gasped, staggered, nearly fell. "What… what was that?"
The warlock's voice softened. "Not a vision. A promise. The Hollow Flame never dies. It merely changes hands."
Another of the Ashborn—a tall, molten-skinned warrior named Sarran—stepped forward, fire rippling across his shoulders. "Speak clearly or burn, witch."
The warlock chuckled, folding the Codex shut with a breath of cold wind. "There is a place. Buried deep beneath stone and ruin. Ys-Tirath. Long before PRIMAL… before even the Nine Flames… something was sealed there. Something older than war. Older than the ring of demons. It sleeps beneath the root and marrow of the world."
Nyara stiffened. "The Nameless Ember."
The warlock nodded. "Yes. That rift above us? It wasn't made. It woke. Drawn to what stirs in that place. The Ashborn cannot go there—not without being torn apart. The wards would unmake their flame. But you… Dexter… you are not bound like them. You are marked, but not cursed."
Dexter's hand curled into a fist. "And what do you want me to do?"
The warlock stepped closer, pulling a small, jagged blade from his belt. Bone-hilted, silver-wrapped, humming with ancient language. Without ceremony, he cut his own palm. Black fire spilled from the wound, hissing as it hit the floor.
"Bind the Codex," he said. "Make its words yours. Carry it into the deep. Speak its name before the Ember wakes."
Silence fell like snow. Even the fire of the Ashborn dimmed.
"You want me to make a pact with that thing?" Dexter asked.
"No," the warlock murmured. "I want you to contain it. If the Nameless Ember rises… it won't bring fire. It will bring silence. Not death. The end of death. A world without endings or beginnings."
Dexter looked to the Ashborn. Their fire flickered not with doubt—but with fear. Real fear. Not for themselves, but for him.
They'd fought beside him. Bled beside him. But what he was being asked to do… was something else.
He turned back to the warlock. "And if I say no?"
"The rift widens. The Ember awakens. And the world ends—not in flame, but in forgetting."
Dexter stepped forward. "Then I'll do it. But on my terms."
The warlock tilted his head. "Speak."
"No more riddles. No whispers in the dark. If I carry that Codex… it listens to me. No one else. It doesn't command. It obeys."
For the first time, the warlock smiled.
"A fair demand. Then speak the binding words."
The Codex rose toward Dexter like a vulture to a corpse.
He raised his hand. The book opened itself, pages fluttering with hunger.
Glyphs leapt from the parchment, wrapping around his fingers, his arm, his spine.
"One flame must be given," the Codex whispered, voice like burning teeth. "One must be taken."
Dexter's jaw clenched. "Then take it from me. Not them."
He slammed his hand onto the page.
Pain bloomed—not raw, but deep, intelligent. The glyphs burrowed into his skin, threading through his nerves, wrapping around his soul like chains of molten thought. It wasn't just knowledge—it was language. Memory. Identity.
The Codex didn't scream.
It sang.
And then… silence.
Dexter fell to one knee, gasping, the Codex vanishing into the space behind his eyes. It lived inside him now, a second heartbeat pulsing with unspeakable fire.
The warlock bowed his head. "The pact is made."
Nyara stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her fire was warm this time. Steady. "You don't carry this alone."
Dexter met her gaze, his own eyes glowing faintly. "I never did. But now… I lead."
He turned to the warlock. "How do we reach Ys-Tirath?"
The warlock raised his bleeding hand toward the rift. A new tear opened—a smaller one, thin as a wound, glowing with teeth and starlight. Beyond it, a jungle of petrified trees reached toward a sky made of broken stars. A black-glass path spiraled down into darkness.
"Step through," the warlock said. "And do not speak the city's name until you are beneath it."
Dexter looked once more to the Ashborn.
They stood ready.
He drew Valebinder with a hiss of metal and fire, the blade crackling in the chapel's wind.
Then he stepped forward, toward the rift.
Just before entering, he turned to the warlock. "What's your name?"
The warlock paused. His eyes flicked down, briefly.
"I gave it to the Codex. You'll find it on the last page… if we survive this."
Dexter nodded once. Then he stepped through.
The Ashborn followed—flames trailing behind them like banners of war.
And as the last of them vanished, the rift closed, slow and reluctant.
Like a wound pretending it was never there.
But the world remembered.
And deep beneath stone and time, something in Ys-Tirath began to stir.
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