The clang of steel echoed through the Iron Hold's high stone halls like a heartbeat. Day after day,
the fortress pulsed with the sounds of rebirth—training drills, sword clashes, flame ignitions and
extinguishments. Blackened armor was reforged, old banners raised again, and the rusted spirit of
the Iron Pact was being tempered anew.Torian stood at the edge of the training ring, arms folded, watching Vaelor lead a brutal sparring
exercise. Sweat clung to every soldier. Sparks danced on their blades. Skarn sat beside the wall,
one paw resting on a slab of stone he'd flattened in irritation after stepping on it twice. He looked on
with the same vigilance he reserved for ambushes.
Torian adjusted the grip on his father's sword. The flame in his chest stirred quietly—not with
hunger, but with purpose. He'd begun to feel it less like a power and more like a second voice. It
whispered not in words, but in intent.
He could feel when it approved. When it warned. When it waited.
And today, it waited.
The spiral on his hand hadn't pulsed since morning. It simply glowed, a faint gold beneath his skin,
like a heartbeat he couldn't silence.
And then, as if called by silence itself, it shifted.
A sharp pulse. Then another. Then a deep, low warmth that drew him not upward—but down.
Torian turned his head toward the old stairwell behind the armory, long sealed with rusted chains
and old Pact script scorched into the arch.
Skarn noticed. He stood immediately.
They moved without a word.
⸻
The stairwell descended into forgotten dark. The spiral glowed gently, guiding the way like a lantern
beneath Torian's skin. Dust layered each step. Moss clung to the walls. At the bottom: an ancient
iron door, warped and blackened, etched with warning runes and sealed shut by flame-bonded
chains.
The spiral pulsed.
Torian stepped forward and placed his palm on the metal.The chains snapped.
The door hissed open.
A low groan of air escaped the chamber beyond. The room was round, low-ceilinged, and lit only by
a dying ember bowl. The air smelled like rot, ash, and age.
In the far corner, chained to a stone bed with silver links, lay a man.
Barely breathing.
Ravick.
His skin was pale, marked with ember-burns in spiral patterns that didn't match Torian's. One leg
was missing below the knee. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle. A cloth covered most of
his face, but his lips moved slowly as if whispering to something that wasn't there.
Torian stepped inside. Skarn followed, moving like a ghost.
The man's eyes opened.
Milky white at first.
Then sharp.
"No flame… no flame… no more false gods…"
Torian knelt. "I'm not here to take anything from you."
Ravick laughed—a brittle, empty sound. "They all say that. Until the spiral burns
through."
Torian held up his hand.
The spiral glowed.
Ravick hissed and turned his face. "A new one. Another child blessed to burn. They justkeep making more…"
"I need answers," Torian said. "You're the only one who remembers. I want to know
what happened. What's coming."
Ravick trembled.
Then sat up slowly, breathing shallow.
"He lives."
"Who?"
"The one who ended us. The one who shattered the spiral. He's not dead. He… refused
death."
Torian's blood chilled.
"You mean the Hollow Flame?"
Ravick turned his head slowly.
"The Hollow Flame was a dream. A ghost. No. The one who won. The one who broke us
and made his own spiral from the ashes. The one who builds kingdoms of smoke."
He stared directly at Torian.
"Malvorn."
The name struck like thunder in Torian's mind.
He blinked.
And then he remembered.
The red banners with the shattered spiral crest.
The flames that rolled across his village.The soldiers in black iron armor who carried nothing but silence and death.
His mother's voice. His father's sword. The fire that never went out.
"Malvorn," Torian whispered.
"He destroyed my village."
Ravick nodded once. "He destroyed hundreds."
Torian stood. "But I thought—"
"You thought he was dead. We all did. We hoped. But hope doesn't kill giants."
Ravick lifted his burned arm slowly, revealing a mark on his chest.
Not a spiral.
A jagged, inverted glyph—like a spiral snapped and twisted into a broken claw.
"He did this to me. When I refused. When I tried to run."
"What is it?"
"The brand of obedience. He uses it on those who once followed the flame. If it roots,
you become… like them. The things that follow him now."
Torian's jaw tightened.
"He's still out there. Building. Spreading."
Ravick laughed again, weaker this time.
"You think this is spreading? Boy… he's already won. You're just late to the funeral."
"No," Torian said.He stepped back.
Skarn moved to his side, steady as stone.
"I was late to survive. Not to stop him."
Ravick coughed once, blood flecking his lips.
Torian turned back once more. "I'll stop him. I'll burn that brand out of the world. I'll
end him."
"Then you better grow fast," Ravick whispered. "He's not a man anymore."
Torian nodded.
"Neither am I."
⸻
They left the vault in silence. Skarn walked beside him without question.
As they stepped into the light of the courtyard, the training stopped.
Vaelor looked up. Ishren stood with his cane, feeling the shift in the wind.
Torian didn't stop to speak to either of them.
He walked to the gates.
A warrior tried to ask something, but Skarn growled and the man stepped back.
At the edge of the Hold, Torian paused.
He looked east, toward the broken ridges that once bordered his homeland.
"Malvorn."
He tasted the name again.This time, not in fear.
In flame.
And he whispered—not as a boy.
As a bearer.
"I'm coming for you."