A blood-red dawn crept across the plains of Cindermoor, coloring the dying grass like embers. Kael Rivenhart rode at the head of a ragged host—militiamen from Vel'Karuun, scarred veterans of the Hollow Spire, and small bands of Crimson Blades who answered his call. Lyra and Darric flanked him, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for the enemy's banners.
The smell of smoke and steel floated on the wind. In the distance, the Black Host's lines cresting the ridge: crimson-armored legions backed by war engines blazing with Veilfire. Their general, Duke Vorian of the Ebony Legion, raised his helm in salute—an open challenge beneath his jet-black standards.
Kael drew a breath and recalled another battlefield. A child of seven, running through the halls of Rivenhart Manor as his mother's staff of healing glowed with silver light, chasing away nightmares. The first time the Crimson Mark flared—red lightning crackling across his palm, scorching a tapestry into ash. His mother's soft voice: "Control it, Kael. Remember who you are." His father's growl: "Hide it, boy, or we all die."
He shook the memory away and raised his gauntleted fist. The militia halted, bows drawn, spears leveled.
"Stormbreaker!" Kael bellowed. He slammed his sword into the ground, and a pulse of red-black lightning rippled outward. The earth heaved, knocking Vorian's vanguard from their mounts.
Lyra charged, sabers ignited in shimmering flame. She wove through broken spears and shattered shields with Fourfold Lotus Strike, petals of steel blossoming in rapid succession. Darric loosed Shadowhail, a storm of arrows singing through the air, pinning enemy crossbowmen against their carts.
The battle lines shattered into chaos. Kael lifted Ashrend high and unleashed Crimson Surge, a sweeping arc of lightning and blood that cleaved banner poles and ripped Veilfire engines from their harnesses.
But the Ebony Legion reformed under Vorian's command. He rode forward, greatsword in hand, sapping Veil energy from the ground where Kael had struck. The weapon glowed with sickly green aura as he parried Kael's next strike, sparks hissing.
Their blades locked. Vorian's voice, cold steel against steel: "You burn too bright, Sovereign. I will drown you in shadow."
Kael felt the Mark throb. The echo of that night eleven years ago, when Kaelen first took him to the Veil rift beneath Velaryn's ruins. The hush before the Trial of Echoes—bone-deep terror as ancient voices clawed at his mind. How he had knelt in a circle of shards and refused to scream, forging the first spark of control.
Now, that control was a blade in his hand. He snapped Ashrend outward in Sovereign's Wrath, fusing lightning and raw Veil power into a single, shattering blast. Vorian staggered back, armor rent, yet managed a cruel grin.
From the flank, Lyra intercepted a squad of Ebony flankers. Her blade drew a crimson arc through the sky—Phoenix Fall, a single downward slash that struck like a meteor. Darric backed her up, firing Veilstorm Javelins into the fray, each projectile exploding into black flame on impact.
On the ridge, Kael and Vorian clashed again. Sparks flew like fiery rain, each strike a thunderclap. Vorian feinted low; Kael spun, catching the blow on his gauntlet, veins glowing. He seized the moment and thrust Ashrend under Vorian's guard in Crimson Brand Awakening—the name of the technique whispered by the ancient texts Kaelen recovered from the Hollow Spire. The blade glowed with molten red runes as it pierced Vorian's pauldron, scoring his flesh.
Vorian fell to one knee, sword clattering. He looked up at Kael—defiance in his eyes, but the light fading.
"You… you are the Sovereign reborn," he rasped.
Kael's chest heaved, breath ragged. He planted the tip of Ashrend in the earth beside Vorian's face. Lightning crackled in the blade's core.
"Leave the rest of your host," Kael said, voice echoing across the plain. "Tell them the Crimson Spark walks again."
Vorian bowed his head. "You have my word."
Kael withdrew his blade. The Mark on his chest pulsed once, then settled into a faint glow. Around him, the Black Host's survivors staggered back, banners lowered, no longer willing to fight.
Lyra and Darric joined him in silence. The plains lay littered with bodies, weaponry half-melted by Veilfire. A hush fell over Cindermoor—a calm stained by blood.
Kael looked at the horizon, at the ancient ridges shadowed by storm clouds. He remembered the last prophecy Kaelen had whispered in the vault: "The Sovereign shall rise… but only one may wield the flame."
He did not know what lay beyond this victory. Only that the path forward would demand more of him than power—perhaps his very soul.
He turned from the battlefield, cloak flaring behind him.
"Onward," he said. "The order that sought me will come for their legend."
Lyra gripped his arm. "We'll stand with you."
Darric nodded. "All the way."
Together, they left Cindermoor behind, the first victory of many—and the beginning of a story that would ignite the world.