The scream echoed across realms.
Not heard—but felt.
Adrien stumbled mid-step on the narrow trail leading away from the Hollow, hand shooting to his chest. The Dragonheart Gem pulsed violently, the fracture glowing brighter for a split second, like it had sensed a wound in the world.
Kaelen phased beside him, his voice unusually hushed. "What was that?"
Adrien didn't answer at first. His head was bowed, eyes clenched shut, as if listening to something far away—buried deep in fire and memory.
Finally, he whispered, "Someone's crying for help."
Serai narrowed her eyes, her flame-touched pupils tightening. "Someone connected to you?"
Adrien nodded slowly. "I don't know how I know. But it felt… close. Not like the others."
He looked up at the sky, storm clouds rolling fast overhead. Magic rode the wind—old, chaotic, untethered.
"She's like me," he said. "Same blood. Same Flame."
Serai's expression sharpened. "Then she's part of the Line."
Kaelen looked between them. "Wait. Are we saying what I think we're saying?"
Adrien's voice was quiet. "I have a sister."
In the Sanctum of Thorns, chains clinked as the girl struggled. Her name had been Elira once, before the Hand took it. Now they called her by another name—Cinderheir.
She didn't remember how she got here. Only flickers of fire. A woman's scream. A burned ruin.
And then—nothing.
For years, they fed her dreams laced with shadowflame, taught her pain was strength, and drilled her with lies about a brother who had let her burn. But the Flame in her veins didn't forget. It whispered to her, curled around her bones, and reminded her with every heartbeat:
He is still alive.
And now he was coming.
She could feel it.
Back on the trail, Adrien's pace had quickened.
"We're not going to House Thorne yet," he said. "We're going north, toward the volcanic coast."
Serai hesitated. "That's closer to the Obsidian Hand's stronghold. If she's being held there—"
"Then I'm going through them," Adrien said.
Kaelen groaned. "Oh sure, let's just storm the demon castle while we're still collecting ancient MacGuffins. Makes perfect sense."
Adrien ignored him. "We split off at the Riftscar Crossing. Serai, take the Hollow-bound artifacts to the Thorne Archive. If they're still loyal, they'll know what to do with them. I'll find her."
Serai grabbed his wrist. "You're not strong enough to face them alone."
Adrien turned to her, and for a moment, she saw Aurenis in his eyes—ancient fire, wrapped in youth and iron will.
"Then I'll become strong enough."
Two nights later, Adrien stood at the edge of the Ashen Coast, the wind howling with volcanic heat.
He was alone now—Kaelen having gone ahead to scout the region's cursed leyline ruins—and the Gem was nearly glowing white-hot against his skin. The closer he got, the more the fracture pulsed.
She was near.
He stepped into the first layer of corrupted flame wards and was nearly knocked back. Shadows writhed through the heat—living, reaching.
But Adrien raised his hand, and the Flame answered.
He didn't repel the darkness.
He tamed it.
And as the shadows bent back, a voice crackled through the air—not a whisper, but a roar, laced with both fury and awe.
The last heir walks into fire willingly.
Then let him burn.
Deep inside the Sanctum, Elira's eyes flew open.
Chains snapped.
The warding circles around her shattered like brittle glass.
The cell exploded in dragonfire.
And as alarms blared across the Obsidian stronghold, the Cinderheir stepped barefoot from the smoke, her skin glowing with soul-light, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Brother…"
From the cliffs above, Adrien heard the scream—not of pain, but of power—and saw the tower ahead erupt in fire.
He sprinted toward it, heart pounding.
Not with fear.
But with recognition.
He wasn't alone anymore.
And the world?
It had just become a battlefield.