Chapter 62: March of the Flame
The dawn never came.
Instead, a red sky hung above them — dim, veiled in a burning haze. Torrash's shadow coiled across the horizon like a living storm.
Echo stood at the front of the army: a line of warriors, mages, exile clans, and common folk who had never held a blade but came anyway.
The Tri-Flame shimmered above her shoulder, alive with golden sparks. The Flame of Origin — now bound to her hand — flickered with a light deeper than fire.
Kael adjusted the hilt of his sword, glancing her way. "Still with me?"
Echo offered a grim smile. "No turning back."
Lumen stood on her other side, staff pulsing with stormfire. "This is it. One way or another."
The Flamekeeper raised Seraphine's banner — not of war, but of rebirth.
And the army began to march.
Every step forward was a war of its own.
The land twisted beneath their feet — trees petrified into black crystal, rivers dried into scarred paths. Fires danced along the ridgelines, but gave no warmth.
Torrash's corruption crawled across the world like a living fever.
They passed through ghost cities — towns once filled with music and trade, now abandoned. Not a soul. Just melted lanterns and ash-covered toys.
Echo's jaw clenched. "He's feeding off the absence. Off emptiness."
Lumen's voice was quiet. "We're too late in some places. But not everywhere."
Kael touched her back gently. "We'll make it matter."
By midday, the scouts returned.
Torrash was no longer sitting idle.
He moved.
Not with steps — with gravity.
He hovered like a nightmare across the central valley, drawing heat from the sky, turning clouds to cinders.
And waiting.
Waiting for her.
Camp was made at dusk.
Echo sat by a silent fire with Kael and Lumen, the Flame of Origin resting in her lap like a sleeping child.
"It wants me to choose," she said.
Kael nodded. "Seraphine chose to burn herself. You don't have to."
"She didn't have you two," Echo murmured. "She carried everything alone."
Lumen's voice was soft. "Then carry it with us. But don't become the weapon. Become the spark."
That night, Echo dreamed.
Not of Seraphine.
But of Torrash.
He stood in a field of mirrors — reflections of her face staring back, all different. Some younger. Some older. Some twisted by power, or grief.
"They loved her because she died," he whispered.
"Will they love you if you live?"
"You are flame, little heir. You will always destroy what you touch."
Echo raised her hand.
The mirrors cracked.
And then shattered.
She woke with fire behind her eyes.
Kael was already up, armor strapped.
"It's time," he said.
Lumen approached with a quiet nod. "Scouts say Torrash is stirring. He knows you're coming."
Echo stood, lifting the Flame of Origin.
"I want him to."
As the army assembled, the sky groaned. Thunder cracked — not from clouds, but from the earth itself.
The ground ahead opened like a maw.
From it, Torrash emerged — no longer smoke and suggestion, but form.
A god-shaped storm, wrapped in armor of flame-eaten stone. Wings of broken stars spread behind him, and in the center of his chest: a void that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Thousands stood frozen.
Then Echo stepped forward.
The Tri-Flame burst into full flame above her, its rings spinning like a star reborn.
"I am Echo Vale," she called, voice carried by the flame. "Heir of Seraphine. Child of the Flame. You will not consume this world."
Torrash's voice answered like ten thousand screams inside a furnace.
"Then BURN WITH IT."
He descended.
Fire rained from the sky.
The army charged.
And the final war began.