They left before dawn.
No drums. No banners. Just the quiet resolve of warriors who knew that some fires begin not with a roar, but with silence.
The village was called Brimvale—a small outpost tucked between frost-cracked cliffs and the river's bend. Once a thriving trade spot under Kael's domain, it had fallen silent days ago. No smoke from the hearths. No raven messengers. Only the whisper that the Hollowborn had come.
Lyra led from the front.
Kael beside her, Thorne behind, and a phalanx of twenty Flameborn warriors fanned out around them—cloaked in crimson leather, faces marked with ash. Each carried a name burned into their shoulder—the fire they chose.
Lyra's wolf surged beneath her skin, wild and coiled.
But beneath the fire, something colder flickered too.
Dread.
This was no longer prophecy. No longer symbol. It was war.
Real. And cruel. And costly.
When they reached the edge of Brimvale, they found the silence waiting.
