The climb back to the surface was quiet—too quiet. The whispers that had haunted them in the tunnels had ceased, but Kael could feel something had changed. Not just in the crypt below… but inside him.
His grip on the hilt of his sword trembled—not from fear, but from the strange warmth running up his arm, like fire just beneath the skin.
A Mark That Burns
When they reached the ruins of the old cathedral above, Kael pulled back his collar and looked at his chest.
The sigil that had branded him at the gates of Wyrmshade was no longer just glowing.
It was spreading.
Thin lines of golden flame veined outward from the center, crawling across his chest and down his left arm like roots—or chains. They pulsed with his heartbeat. Not pain… not quite. But pressure.
"That's not supposed to happen," Iris said, voice tight.
Kael looked at her. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated.
"I've read about the Flameborn Curse," she said. "It awakens over years. Yours is evolving in days. Something's accelerating it."
"The beast said I wasn't ready," Kael murmured. "What if this is what he meant?"
Ash scoffed. "What if he just wanted to rattle you? That thing didn't seem like the prophecy type."
But Iris looked unconvinced.
"We need answers. And we won't find them here."
The Warlock of Murnhold
The next morning, they crossed the Ashen Flats and headed northeast to Murnhold, a half-forgotten ruin rumored to house one of the last living warlocks—an exile who had once walked with kings.
They found him in a crumbling tower, surrounded by dead trees and birds that didn't sing. He was old—older than the stone itself, it seemed—draped in black, with eyes like wet coals.
"You bring fire," he rasped the moment Kael stepped through his threshold.
"I bring questions," Kael answered.
"Same thing."
The warlock's name was Vaerin. And he didn't fear the sigil.
He revered it.
"You're not cursed," Vaerin said after examining the markings. "You're chosen. The mark you carry isn't just from the gods. It's from before them."
Kael's brow furrowed. "Before the gods?"
"Before language. Before history. When power answered only to blood and death."
"What am I?"
Vaerin leaned in close, his breath reeking of dust and decay.
"You are the waking memory of a forgotten flame. The last echo of the one who dared to burn the gods themselves."
Nightfall Revelations
That night, Kael couldn't sleep. He sat alone beneath the broken arches of Murnhold's chapel, staring into the sky.
The stars looked back.
And for a moment, he swore one of them blinked.
From the shadows, Iris approached. "You okay?"
Kael didn't answer.
"It's not just the mark," he finally said. "When I killed that thing beneath the city… something spoke to me. Not in words. In feeling. Like I was being… recognized."
Iris sat beside him. "Maybe it's your blood."
"What if my blood's the problem?" he whispered. "What if I'm not the hero of this story? What if I'm the mistake?"
Iris touched his arm gently.
"Then we'll fix it. Together."
Kael looked at her. Her eyes—bright with faith—were the only thing that grounded him.
But deep inside, the fire pulsed again.
And something laughed in the dark.