The morning fog curled low over the fields of Thorne like pale fingers, muffling sound and cloaking movement. From the high watchtowers, only shadows could be seen—dark forms flickering across the edges of vision. Uncertainty loomed.
Kael stood on the ramparts of the citadel with Lyra and General Marek. The Ember Sigil burned faintly on his chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath his cloak. It had been only three days since the temple, and already the world was shifting. He could feel it, the tension, the unease. Things were changing, and he was caught in the storm.
"They're not moving like soldiers," Marek muttered. His brow furrowed as he squinted into the mist. "Scouts, maybe. Or worse."
Lyra's hand drifted to the hilt of her blade, her movements slow but deliberate, as if readying herself for whatever might come from the fog. "Shades?"
Kael nodded, his voice grim. "Or something newer. The steward is adapting."
Beneath them, the war camp buzzed with tension. Thousands of soldiers moved like a well-oiled machine—trained, equipped, and unified under a banner that hadn't flown in over a century: the phoenix of Emberfall, reborn in crimson and gold. It was the beginning of something larger, but it also felt like the beginning of the end.
But numbers alone wouldn't win this war.
Kael turned to Marek, whose jaw was set in a hard line. "How long until the eastern flank arrives?"
"Three days," the general replied. His gaze flicked to the distant horizon, as if searching for something unseen. "If the roads hold. Rhianna's fleets will take longer—ten days at sea, maybe more."
"We can't wait," Kael said, his voice firm. "If the steward breaks through the fog, we'll be surrounded. We strike first."
Marek hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "We'll need a lead unit. Fast. Disrupt their lines before they consolidate."
Lyra stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with resolve. "Let me lead it."
Kael's instinct was to object, to keep her with him where it was safer, but he met her eyes, fierce and certain. There was no stopping her once she made up her mind. He nodded. "Take Corran. Strike swift and vanish. Don't die."
She smiled faintly, her lips curling into something that was almost a smirk. "Not today."
---
That night, Lyra and her team vanished into the fog.
Kael returned to the war tent, where Queen Seralyn and Rhianna were already poring over an updated map. The steward's forces were spreading like a sickness, a crescent of darkness inching closer to Emberfall. They had already cut off roads, swallowed villages, and left behind nothing but charred stone and smoldering ashes. It was a grim picture, and Kael felt a knot tighten in his chest as he studied the map.
"The east holds, but barely," Rhianna said, her voice low and grim. "They've begun summoning again."
"Demons?" Kael asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He had faced many horrors in his time, but there was something about the steward's twisted magic that made his blood run cold.
"Worse," Rhianna whispered, her eyes haunted. "Fleshbound golems. Animated corpses of warriors stitched together, controlled by tethered souls. The priesthood calls it 'the Reaping.'"
Kael's blood ran colder still. The very thought of it sickened him—dead warriors forced to fight again, their souls trapped in bodies they couldn't control. It was the kind of dark magic that had no place in the world. It was a desecration.
"They've lost the gods," Seralyn murmured, her gaze distant, as though she could feel the weight of the words even before she spoke them. "And so they feed on death instead."
Kael touched the Ember Sigil. His power pulsed beneath his fingers, but it was not the familiar warmth he was accustomed to. It was an echo, a hollow sensation. Something beneath the steward's rituals pulled at the same roots, a darkness that echoed in the very core of the Sigil.
"They're using pieces of the Brand," Kael said slowly. His voice was tight, his mind racing. "Twisted. Broken."
Seralyn's expression darkened, her eyes narrowing in silent fury. "Then it's not just war. It's blasphemy."
He nodded grimly. "And we end it."
---
At dawn, Kael led the first march.
The fog thickened as they entered the northern fields, the dense mist pressing in from all sides, swallowing them in a sea of white. Soldiers moved in near silence, the only sound the dull clink of armor and the muted thud of hooves. There was something eerie about the fog, as if it were hiding more than it revealed.
By midday, they reached the edge of Black Hollow. The pass lay before them—twisting, narrow, and deadly. It was a choke point, the perfect place for an ambush, and Kael's gut twisted as he looked out over the jagged cliffs that rose like teeth on either side.
Kael signaled a halt.
Scouts returned moments later, their faces grim. "Three enemy camps across the pass. Ritual circles. Defensive wards. They're preparing something."
"Then we disrupt it," Kael said, his voice resolute.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the crimson clouds, they struck.
The battle was sudden and brutal. Shadows leapt from the trees, armed with bone blades and cloaked in rot. Pyreborn mages unleashed waves of flame, pushing them back with all the fury of a storm. But Kael and his soldiers pressed on, refusing to yield. He moved with fire in both hands, the Sigil guiding his strikes, each swing cutting through enemy lines with the force of a hammer. Behind him, his warriors followed without hesitation, their swords gleaming in the dying light.
They cleared the first camp with surprising speed. But as they moved toward the second, something changed.
As Kael stepped into the clearing, the ground beneath his feet trembled. A low growl echoed from the earth, followed by a deafening roar. From the earth, a hulking creature emerged—a twisted, stitched-together monstrosity, glowing with ominous runes that pulsed like the heartbeat of the dead.
"A Reaper construct," Corran growled, his voice tight with disbelief. "Pull back!"
"No," Kael said, his voice hard as iron. "We end this. Now."
He charged, his Sigil blazing in the growing darkness, fire erupting from his hands in torrents of searing light. The Reaper absorbed the flames, twisting them, redirecting them with an unnatural speed. Kael adjusted his approach, shifting the heat into pure light, bending the very essence of the Brand into a blinding radiance.
The creature shrieked, its form contorting as the light burned through its body.
Lyra struck from behind, her blade a flash of silver as she cleaved through the creature's spine. The beast collapsed in a heap of charred bone and twisted flesh.
With a roar, they burned the rest of the camp to the ground.
---
The third and final camp was eerily quiet. The enemy forces had abandoned it, leaving behind only the remnants of their dark rituals.
Kael frowned. "It's a trap."
Before he could speak further, the ground split open, a gaping chasm opening wide beneath their feet. From it rose a wind that howled like the wailing of the dead, carrying with it the scent of decay and ruin.
Out stepped a woman.
Tall, pale, and with eyes of liquid coal, her robes shimmered with dark sigils that glowed like embers in the night. Her presence was suffocating, and the air around her seemed to twist and warp as though reality itself was bending to her will.
"You carry her flame," she said, her voice soft yet terrible, like the whisper of death itself. "But it will not save you."
Kael stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "Who are you?"
She smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "I am what was left behind when the first Flamebearer fell. I am her shadow. Her cost."
With a flick of her wrist, the world seemed to bend. The very air around them rippled as if reality itself were breaking apart.
Kael barely blocked her strike, his sword ringing against her magical barrier with a harsh clang. Fire and shadow collided in the air, tearing through trees and earth, sending the very ground beneath them into upheaval.
The others formed a circle around the woman, but their attacks seemed to have no effect. Lyra flanked her, her movements like lightning, but the woman twisted in the air, avoiding the strike with ease. Corran fired sigil-wrapped arrows, but they disintegrated before they could reach her.
Kael called on everything—the Sigil, the Brand, the prophecy.
He saw the truth.
This woman was the Flamebearer's sister. The twin.
Lost in the first war. Bound by the steward to twist the Brand.
"You don't have to serve him," Kael said, his voice filled with a quiet plea. "You can still return."
She laughed, but it was a sound full of bitterness and sorrow. "There is no return."
They clashed once more—fire to void.
And Kael broke through.
With a final strike, he placed the Sigil on her brow, and for a moment, she screamed in pain and light.
Then she vanished.
Only ash remained.
---
The Reaper Gate closed.
The steward's ritual was halted—for now.
Kael stood amid the ashes, breath ragged, his body trembling with exhaustion.
Lyra stepped forward, her hand resting on his shoulder. "We have time. Not much. But enough."
He nodded, his gaze unwavering as he looked out over the battlefield. "Then we rally. And we end this."