The wind over the Emberreach Highlands was razor-sharp, sweeping low with the scent of scorched stone and cold steel. Kael stood at the edge of a broken cliff, his cloak flaring in the gust. Below him stretched the fractured landscape—deep trenches like claw marks in the earth, blackened ruins of watchtowers, and a wide, circular pit that pulsed with a faint, sickly green light.
The Reaper Gate had been closed, but its echo remained—a wound in the world.
Behind him, Lyra climbed the rise with a grim face, her boots crunching over loose gravel. Her left arm was bandaged from the last battle, and the edge of her cloak was scorched where the Reaper's shadow had grazed her.
"They're calling it the Scar," she said, her voice low.
Kael didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the pit.
"They should," he murmured finally. "It is."
They'd won a battle. But the war hadn't slowed—it had only revealed its true depth. The steward's reach went further than Kael had feared. Whatever ritual the twin Flamebearer had been part of… it hadn't ended. It had merely fractured.
And something had broken through. Just not completely.
"They're gathering below," Lyra said, watching him carefully. "The council expects your presence."
Kael sighed and turned away from the edge. "Then let's not disappoint them."
---
In the shattered hall of Emberreach Keep, the war council gathered around a cracked marble table. Maps were pinned with dozens of red markers. Tension crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break.
General Marek stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest. Queen Seralyn was seated at the head of the table, her regal composure beginning to fray around the edges. Rhianna, emissary of the sea kingdoms, sat opposite Kael, her sea-gray eyes unreadable.
And at the center of it all was the message.
A single parchment, delivered by hawk just hours before. Sealed with a black wax sigil—a broken flame encircled by runes.
Kael read it again, though he already knew the words by heart.
"Return the Flamebearer to the heart of the Scar. Alone. At dusk. Or the next gate opens in Caer Thorne."
Queen Seralyn's knuckles whitened around the edge of the table. "He's taunting us. He won't keep his word."
"He never does," Marek growled. "It's a trap. Pure and simple."
Kael nodded. "Of course it's a trap. But we still have to walk into it."
Silence fell over the chamber.
Lyra stepped forward from the shadows, her expression unreadable. "Alone?"
Kael's eyes met hers. "That's what he wants. But we don't give him exactly that. We'll move as planned. The main force stays in Caer Thorne, defensive formations ready. I go to the Scar. You follow in shadow. Marek holds the line. Rhianna—"
"I've already summoned my fleet," Rhianna said. "If the second gate opens, we sink it in the sea."
Kael allowed himself a faint nod. "Then we make our move. Dusk."
---
The journey to the Scar took only hours, but Kael felt the weight of it pressing on his shoulders like days. The wind grew colder as the sun slipped lower, bleeding red into the horizon. When he reached the outer ring of the pit, there was no sound—no birds, no insects, no wind. Only silence.
He stepped forward.
The green light deep within the chasm pulsed once—slow and steady, like a heartbeat.
Then a figure emerged.
He wore no armor. His robe was deep black, embroidered with glyphs that shimmered faintly. His eyes were gold and dead.
The Steward of Chains.
"You came," he said. His voice was dry, thin, but it carried, as though the air itself moved to deliver his words.
Kael unsheathed his blade but didn't lift it. "You wanted me. I'm here. Say what you came to say."
The steward smiled. "So eager. So bold. The gods chose you, yet you deny their price. Do you not wonder what came before you?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "I know what I need to know."
"No, you don't," the steward whispered.
And then the ground cracked.
Kael staggered back as the pit blazed to life. Runes etched deep in the stone ignited. A circle of fire and shadow erupted around him, towering walls of magic that locked into place like teeth. Behind them, a dome shimmered into existence—blocking the world out.
"Do you feel it?" the steward asked, stepping closer. "The weight of it? The Brand was not given. It was taken. And now… the debt is due."
Chains erupted from the ground.
Kael moved instinctively, ducking, rolling, the Ember Sigil flaring to life as he deflected one and shattered another. But they kept coming—long, spectral chains, tipped with hooks and seething with voidlight.
The steward raised his hand.
And from the heart of the Scar, something emerged.
It was not a demon. It was not human. It was something in between—fused of molten stone and stolen light, its limbs fused with metal, its face a hollow mask of fire. A construct, built from the bones of old gods and the broken pieces of failed Flamebearers.
Kael's blade burned white-hot.
The creature roared, and the battle began.
---
Kael fought like the wind—blades sweeping in arcs of fire, each strike guided by the Sigil's heat. But the creature was relentless. Its body absorbed flame, redirected it. Every strike Kael landed only seemed to make it stronger.
Chains lashed the air, slamming into Kael's ribs, dragging him off his feet. He landed hard, coughing blood, vision swimming.
The steward stepped to the edge of the circle. "You see now? You are not chosen. You are bound. Every bearer is. Even the first."
Kael forced himself up. "She fought you."
"She was me," the steward hissed. "She broke first. You will break next."
A bolt of shadow launched toward him—but this time, it didn't land.
Lyra emerged from the fog with a cry, blades spinning. She slashed through the spell midair, her form wreathed in flame Kael recognized but hadn't taught her. Not yet.
He gasped. "You shouldn't be here."
She didn't stop moving. "Neither should you."
Behind them, Corran and a dozen Emberblades spilled through a breach in the barrier—cut by Rhianna's fleet from the other side.
Kael steadied himself. "Together."
The next wave came hard—chains, flames, claws, curses—but now they had momentum. Lyra distracted the construct while Kael redirected its flame into his own weapon. Corran unleashed enchanted arrows that exploded like starbursts. Slowly, piece by piece, they broke the monster down.
Until only its core remained—a heart of crystal, pulsing with white light.
Kael leapt, driving his sword into it.
The Scar erupted in flame.
---
When Kael opened his eyes, it was night.
He lay at the edge of the pit. The steward was gone. The construct—dissolved into ash. The dome had collapsed, and the magic had gone still.
Lyra crouched beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "We thought we lost you."
Kael tried to speak, but couldn't.
Instead, he reached inside his cloak.
And drew out what remained of the construct's core.
It still pulsed, faintly.
Not corrupted. Not evil. Pure.
He stared at it, his heart pounding.
Not all the Brand had been taken.
Some of it still waited… to be earned.