The city of Irongate never truly slept. Even beneath the void-black sky, its forges roared, sending smoke curling like serpents into the air, staining the stars red. The banners of the Hollow Crown hung from every tower, their golden edges fraying like burnt paper, yet the symbols remained unmistakable: a crown of iron, encircled by chains, an unyielding promise.
Within the citadel, the Paladin of the Hollow Crown knelt before the Crown Reliquary. The obsidian diadem hovered above an altar chained in black iron, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. His gauntlets were raw with blood from self-scourging—rituals meant to test devotion, to sharpen the mind through pain. The Paladin's voice, low and resonant, filled the chamber.
"Order above mercy. Purity above choice. Crown above all."
Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open, and a knight stepped in, kneeling as though the weight of the citadel pressed upon him. "My lord," he said, voice trembling. "Scouts have returned. The Ashborn are restless. Their fires grow bold."
The Paladin did not turn. His eyes, pale as ash, glimmered with cold fire. "And the shard-bearer?"
"The reports…" the knight faltered. "Some say he walks in shadow as if born of night itself. Others claim he carries the blood of a dead god in his chest."
A thin smile tugged at the corner of the Paladin's mouth beneath the helm. "Heretic or monster—it matters not. Both are sins that must be purged." He rose, the full height of his armored frame filling the chamber. "The Ashborn will crumble before the Crown. Their fire will falter. Their bones will lay the foundation of a new order."
The knight's throat went dry. "My lord…"
"Crown above all," the Paladin intoned, reverent and unyielding. The knight repeated the words, a whisper swallowed by the walls.
Far to the north, the fog hugged the shattered spires of Harrowvale. Once a thriving trade city, it now lay broken, a graveyard of stone and memory. No torchlight dared burn there. No banners proclaimed allegiance. Only mist, thick and unrelenting, crawling through empty streets like a living thing.
And in that fog, the Shroudbound Leader waited.
He stood atop a ruined bridge, cloak spreading like ink across broken stones. The mask upon his face was carved bone, etched with twisting lines that shifted as if alive. His hands were gloved, but the fingers twitched with subtle authority over the shadows gathering at his feet. Behind him knelt a dozen Shroudbound, figures barely human: pale flesh, hollow eyes, shadows that seemed to move independently, obeying no one but him.
"The Ashborn fight like animals. The Hollow Crown fights like machines. Both cling to the same illusion," the Leader whispered, voice curling around the stones. "Their fire, their laws, their chains—they believe it will hold back the tide. But we are the tide. The night does not ask permission. It simply arrives."
One of the kneeling figures raised a fragile hand. "The shard-bearer… he walks with the Ashborn. His shadow bends toward us already. Should we not claim him?"
The Leader's head tilted, mask catching faint light. "Not yet. A blade forged in fire must first cool in blood before it cuts true. Let him struggle. Let him believe his defiance matters. When he breaks—and he will break—the shard will sing. And it will be our song."
The mist thickened around them, swallowing ruins, feeding the sense that the city itself was a wound the world had forgotten. Every step the Shroudbound took echoed like the clatter of bones in a tomb.
Meanwhile, the Paladin's eyes turned inward. He envisioned the Ashborn fires, tiny and defiant, burning against the darkness. Every ember a challenge. And every challenge demanded obedience, demanded sacrifice. He tightened his gauntlets, flexing raw fingers.
"The boy draws shadows to himself," he murmured, thinking of Kaelen. "Yet he walks among the living. He tempts the balance. A fire not bent by law is a fire that consumes everything around it."
He rose, the clang of armor resounding through the hall. "I will guide him to obedience, one way or another. The Ashborn will kneel. Their pyres will burn, and the Crown will endure. Even if it takes every soldier, every forge, every chain."
A horn sounded in the distance, muted by the thick walls of the citadel. The Paladin's eyes narrowed. The Hollow Crown marches were already in motion. The tide could not wait.
Back in Harrowvale, the Shroudbound Leader's cloak whipped in the wind. He raised one arm, and shadows surged like liquid smoke, curling around pillars and fallen statues. "Observe him," he whispered. "He resists. He believes he is free. That belief will crack. That belief will fracture. And when it does, the world will remember our names."
A younger Shroudbound whispered, voice trembling. "Will he not destroy himself before then?"
The Leader tilted his head. "Let him try. Every choice he makes, every ember he spares, every shadow he hides—feeds us. Every struggle makes him ours, whether he knows it or not."
He stepped down from the bridge, the mist parting as if obeying a god unseen. "Prepare the northern paths. The Hollow Crown moves south, the Ashborn cling to their mountains. And the shard-bearer… he walks between them. Soon, he will see what the world truly is."
Between the two poles of fire and shadow, Kaelen walked, unaware of the full measure of eyes upon him. His path through the embers of the Ashborn held him in fragile balance: each step watched, each choice a spark in the storm to come.
The winds carried whispers of the Crown, the Shroudbound, and the mountains themselves seemed to lean in. In every shadow, in every ember, Kaelen felt the stirrings of forces older than the kingdoms themselves.
And he knew, somewhere deep within, that neither his fire nor his restraint would be enough.
The storm had only begun.