The Hollow Return
Kael stood at the mouth of the ruined citadel, its gates hanging crooked, its banners long since burned away. This had once been his home—one of many. But now it was just a skeleton of stone, blackened by his own fire.
He hadn't brought anyone with him.
He didn't tell Rhena. Or Aureon. Or even the remnants of the Fireborne who still waited for a command he refused to give.
The Darksword was gone.
And without it, something in him felt… unfinished. Or perhaps too finished. Too quiet.
The silence was unfamiliar.
He walked the shattered halls, memories haunting every step. Here was where he made his oath to the flame. There was where he bled for the first time. There was the throne he once burned just to prove he didn't need it.
And yet now, the ghost of a king walked its ruins, unsure of who he was without his crown of fire.
Echoes from Myrrhold
Meanwhile, in the gilded corridors of Myrrhold, Aureon stood in the Hall of Scepters, staring down a council that looked less like rulers and more like frightened children in silk.
"You said the Fire King is disarmed," one of the barons said. "And yet you let him vanish. Why?"
"Because he chose not to destroy us," Aureon answered, voice calm but cold. "And because I trust the man more than I trust this room."
"You trust a monster?"
"I trust the man who faced his monster and survived it."
There was a pause.
Then Lady Coren—the Queen Regent's younger sister—stepped forward.
"And what of the weapon?" she asked. "The Darksword?"
"Gone."
"You think that matters?" Her smile was razor-thin. "You think something forged in such hate simply dies? No, Prince. I've seen power like that before. It waits. It festers. And it always finds a new host."
In the North
In the frost-covered valley of Vyrren, Rhena stood beneath a blood moon, looking out over a fresh grave.
It wasn't marked with a name.
Kael hadn't told her who it was. He only dug it and left a single emberstone on top, glowing faintly.
She understood anyway.
She knelt, brushing snow off the surface, and whispered, "I hope you forgive him."
The wind howled back, hollow and cold.
Behind her, the ice-crusted trees groaned—and something ancient stirred beneath the surface.
The Darksword was gone.
But its shadow remained.
Whispers in the Flame
Kael made camp at the base of the Deadspire, a long-extinct volcano where the First Flame was said to have been born. He didn't sleep. Not really.
He sat before a fire that wouldn't catch, just smoke and sparks and memories.
Then he heard it.
Not the sword's voice. Not the Leviathan. Not even the whispers of the cursed.
It was her.
"You left me."
Kael turned.
A girl stood there. Eyes white. Hair burnt. Skin cracked with glowing lines like smoldering embers.
No—she wasn't real.
She was the first child he'd ever failed.
The one he'd carried out of the Hollowdeep mines too late.
"You're not here," Kael said.
"But I am." Her voice shook like flame. "Because your guilt is."
He closed his eyes, but her voice drilled deeper.
"You buried the sword, Kael. But what about what it left inside you?"
He didn't have an answer.
A New Heir
Back in Myrrhold, trouble stirred. A child had appeared in the city, claiming blood of flame and fire. Claiming the Fire King's legacy.
The boy had no proof. Only stories. Only scars.
But in a city as broken as Myrrhold, stories were power.
The court scoffed.
The people listened.
Some began to follow him. Quietly at first. Then with banners.
Red ones.
Aureon heard of it three days later. He stood at the edge of the training grounds, gripping the hilt of his reforged Lightbrand and wondering if he'd made a mistake letting Kael go.
Because something else had returned in his place.
From Ashes, Fire
Kael descended into the Deadspire, walking paths no man had crossed in centuries.
He passed bones. Charred relics. Symbols carved in obsidian.
And at the heart, a pool of black glass. Still. Unmoving.
He reached toward it.
The reflection showed not his face—but the Darksword.
Whole.
Awake.
He flinched back—but nothing came out of the glass.
Not yet.
The whisper returned, not from the sword this time—but from deep inside his own chest.
"You thought you could bury me?"
He fell to his knees.
The fire hadn't left him.
It had just learned to hide.