Deep within the Mountains of Winterfall, Karl reached a stone amphitheater where the Nightborn once gathered in secret.
There he found the Revenant Circle — seven ancient beings who had once defied death, and now lived between life and decay. One of them, Varsha the Hollow, recognized him.
"You are the curse made flesh," she rasped. "The Firstborn. The one promised to the flame."
Karl demanded answers. What was he becoming? Could he stop it?
They offered him a choice: give in to the hunger and ascend… or resist and be consumed by it.
"You must learn balance," said Varsha. "Drink not just for survival — but for purpose. Take only what you are willing to carry."
They branded his chest with their seal: a crescent swallowing a star.
He left stronger. More focused.
But darker still.
King Andric passed away before dawn.
Alaris stood before the kingdom as torches lined the streets, announcing the king's death. He wore the crown in silence. A prince no longer.
He wept only once — alone, with Seraphim.
"You must lead them now," she whispered. "With truth. With fire. And if your brother returns…"
"He will," Alaris said. "And I will not meet him as a stranger."
A week later, he sent a small force into the Wildlands — not to hunt Karl, but to find him. A message rode with them:
"I am no longer afraid. Come home, brother. If war is coming, let us face it together."
In the abyss, Satan no longer dreamed. He remembered.
He had once been a god of light. Betrayed. Cast down. Burned.
And now his vessel — Karl — was nearing completion.
He summoned his servants, the Flamebound: loyal cultists scattered across kingdoms, wearing masks of ash and brands of fire.
They began to move.
Temples burned. Rivers boiled. A village near Velmora vanished overnight — nothing left but scorched bones and a single sigil carved in the earth.
The world was catching fire.
And Karl — caught between man, monster, and myth — would have to choose where he stood before the inferno consumed all.
From the east came smoke.
Cities that once pledged loyalty to Velmora now flew banners of burning suns. The Flamebound moved fast, their numbers growing with every scorched village.
In the city of Dareth, General Kaeron tried to resist. He and his soldiers fortified the gates, but the fire was already inside.
It wasn't soldiers they faced — it was zealots with skin like ember, eyes glowing orange. When the fire fell from the sky, Dareth ceased to exist.
Only a child escaped, whispering one word before collapsing into the arms of Velmoran scouts: "Ashborn."
Karl felt the burning across the world as if it scorched his own skin.
He sought out Lusaka — the immortal who once guided him — in the ruins of a zin temple. She emerged from the shadows of the water, wearing a crown of bone and sorrow.
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked. "Your tether to the Flamebound. To him."
Karl nodded. "Can it be severed?"
"There is a shard," she said. "A piece of Sultan's original soul, buried deep in the Hollow Sea. Destroy it, and you weaken the bond. But beware — the shard calls to the cursed."
Karl set off with Solenoid. Beneath the sea, nightmares awaited.
In the depths of the Hollow Sea, Karl entered the ruins of a drowned citadel. Every wall bore carvings of fire devouring the stars.
There, he faced visions of his past. A memory twisted: his mother handing him over willingly to the Djinn. A lie whispered by the shard.
But Karl saw through it. "My curse began with fire — but my strength came after."
He drove his blade into the shard, shattering it.
The sea trembled. Across the world, Flamebound cultists screamed and convulsed.
One third of their number fell that day — silenced by the breaking of their god's heart.
Karl emerged, wounded but changed.
Solenoid helped him to his feet. "You've made an enemy of a god," he said.
Karl smiled. "Then let him burn."
Alaris investigates the eerie city of Lycoris and finds dark cult activity. Seraphim's health declines with a curse-linked illness, forcing Alaric to consider a dangerous ritual. Meanwhile, Karl uncovers the true origins of his curse and legacy in Eldains ruins.
Alaris gathered the kingdom's most trusted priests and mages deep within the sacred hall of cleansing. The Bloodmarked Rite was ancient — a trial by fire and blood to purify the soul from curses that ran deep in the veins.
Seraphim's lay upon the altar, pale but resolute. Alaric took her hand.
"If this is our only hope," he said, "then I will stand by you."
The ritual began with chants older than the kingdom itself. Flames roared, marking the floor with sacred symbols. Alaris felt heat and cold clash inside him — a battle mirrored in his heart.
Meanwhile, Karl and Solenoid ventured deeper into the wildlands, seeking the hidden Flameborn cultist stronghold to strike a decisive blow.
They found remnants of a village consumed by fire, with ash-stained banners fluttering in the wind. From the shadows emerged an old Flameborn warrior, scars glowing like embers, eyes burning with fanatic resolve.
"This is no longer a war of man," the warrior snarled. "It is a war for the soul of fire itself."
Karl tightened his grip on his blade. The final confrontation was drawing near.
Back in Velarian, Loren studied the obsidian box taken from Lida's cathedral. Within it lay a mirror, dark and swirling with shadow.
When Alaris gazed into it, he saw not his own reflection but fragments of a shattered past — images of the Djinn's fall, the twin brothers torn apart, and a vision of himself standing beside Karl in a future soaked with blood.
The mirror whispered a question:
"Will you be the king who destroys his brother, or the brother who saves his king?"
The city of Velarian trembled under the roar of war drums. From the horizon, black smoke spiraled upward like a dark omen. The Flamebound cultists, fanatics forged in fire and ash, had begun their assault on the kingdom's borders with ruthless precision.
Alaris stood atop the palace ramparts, watching the distant battlefields ignite. His heart pounded, weighed down by more than the burden of a crown. "We cannot hold forever," he muttered, clenching his fist.
Solenoid arrived swiftly, his face grim beneath the hood. "Karl's power could turn the tide," he said, urgency thick in his voice. "But the prince refuses to believe his brother is more than a monster."
Alaris's jaw tightened. "If Karl is truly the Firstborn, then the fate of Velarian rests in his hands — whether he likes it or not."
The war was no longer a distant thunder. It was at their gates. And the echoes of fire called them all to battle.
In the shattered village of Darrow's End, Karl faced the leader of the Flamebound assault — a towering warrior named Ignatius, whose skin flickered like molten rock and whose eyes burned with zealotry.
Steel clashed as Karl's vampire speed met Ignar's fiery fury. The battle tore through crumbled homes and smoldering fields, flames licking hungrily at the ruins.
With every strike, Karl felt the hunger beneath his skin clawing up — the curse fighting to consume him. Yet he held firm, wielding shadow and blood alike.
But the fight left him wounded and weary. As Ignar fled into the burning horizon, Karl's fangs scraped stone and dirt. "This war is far from over," he whispered.
In the distance, the cries of the Shadow Gauntlet echoed — a warning that darker forces stirred beneath the flames.
Back in the palace's dimly lit chambers, Queen Seraphim's breath grew shallow. The curse that had haunted her family since the devil's bargain was taking its toll.
She summoned Alaris close, her eyes shimmering with urgency. "There is an ancient weapon — forged in Djinn magic — hidden within the Vault of Shadows," she revealed. "It could cleanse the bloodline… but the cost is greater than you can imagine."
Alaris's gaze darkened. "Tell me what I must do."
Seraphim reached out, tracing a scar etched into her palm — the Devil's Mark. "To wield it, you must sacrifice a part of your soul. A piece of your very being."
Torn between duty and love, Alaris knew the path forward would demand more than courage — it would demand sacrifice.
Under a sky thick with ash and smoke, Karl and Alaris met on a battlefield scarred by fire and blood. Their eyes locked — not with hatred, but with the unspoken weight of their shared past.
"Brother," Alaris began, voice rough but steady, "this curse… it has torn us apart. But if we don't stand together, Velarian will burn to ashes."
Karl's dark eyes flickered with a fragile hope. "I have walked the edge of the abyss and survived. I don't want to be your enemy. But I won't be your pawn."
They lowered their weapons, the tension dissolving into a fragile truce.
"Then we fight together," Alaris said, extending his hand.
Karl hesitated — then clasped it firmly. "For Velarian. For our family."
The heavens wept ash as the world braced for war. Satan's power swelled from the Abyss, tendrils of flame and shadow weaving through the skies.
In the throne room, Alaris and Karl stood side by side, united by blood and purpose. The court whispered nervously — hope and fear tangled in their voices.
The brothers shared a look, understanding the impossible road ahead.
"Whatever comes," Karl said quietly, "we face it as one."
The first volume closed on the edge of darkness, a world poised between destruction and salvation — waiting for the flames to rise.