The Hollow Spire did not sleep. Even as night smothered the ruined towers, the rebels stirred like restless ghosts, blades rasping against whetstones, boots pacing the dust-worn floor. Fear had a scent—sweat and smoke and the metallic tang of blood still drying in the cracks of stone—and it hung heavy in the air.
Kael woke to it.
The world swam into him slowly, a blur of heat and ache. His body screamed with every breath, but still he forced himself upright, one hand braced against the cold wall. His veil was gone entirely now; his face lay bare to the chamber's flickering firelight. No one met his eyes, though he felt the weight of every gaze like arrows drawn tight on the string.
"Careful," Liora murmured, rushing to steady him. Her hands were gentle but firm, guiding him back against the pallet.
Kael caught her wrist before she could withdraw. "How long?" His voice rasped, cracked.
"A night and a half," she said softly. "You burned with fever. I thought—" Her words faltered. "We thought we'd lose you."
"I'm not so easy to lose," he said, though the tremor in his grip betrayed him.
From across the chamber, Kaela stood like a shadow carved of iron. "They've been waiting for you to rise," she said. Her tone was blunt, but beneath it ran relief too sharp to hide.
Indeed, he heard it now—the subtle hush, the stilling of whispers as rebels turned toward him. Not all with hope. Some with fear. Some with hunger for answers.
Scarred Leader stepped forward first, his massive frame blocking half the firelight. "You fought well, boy," he rumbled. "But the King won't let this stand. Riders will be on the roads by dawn. If we stay, we die."
Rylan bristled. "Running will kill us faster. We can't scatter like rats every time the crown breathes." His eyes burned as he looked to Kael. "Tell them. Tell them we fight."
Dozens of eyes turned to him. Kael's hands clenched in the blanket, torn between duty and the memory of his vision—chains, fire, Calderis aflame.
"I saw what comes," Kael said slowly, his voice carrying despite the weakness in it. "The King will hunt us, yes. He'll burn every hollow and valley until nothing remains but ash. But…" He drew a ragged breath. "I also saw chains breaking. A storm unleashed. If we endure, if we stand together, we can break his hold."
Murmurs rippled like wind through tall grass. Doubt. Fear. Hope.
Liora stepped closer, firelight haloing her hair. "You heard him. If we scatter, we are nothing. But if we stand—if we trust each other—we can be more than the King's prey." Her palms lifted, and flame curled to life, steady and golden, casting long shadows against the stone. "I choose to fight. Who stands with me?"
Rylan's hand shot up first. Kaela unsheathed her blade, steel ringing. Slowly, others followed—hesitant, but drawn by the flame.
Scarred Leader's scarred jaw tightened. Then, with a grunt, he crossed his arms. "So be it. We move before dawn. But if any man falters, I'll cut him down myself."
It was not unity. But it was a start.
---
Far from the Spire, Calderis lay drowned in shadow.
King Valtheron stood upon the high balcony of Fortress Valtheron, his crown gleaming like a shard of night. The city stretched beneath him—a sea of spires and smoke, its streets alive with the rhythm of soldiers' boots. Torches flared like veins of fire in the dark, snaking outward as warbands readied for the hunt.
Behind him, armored riders knelt in silence. Each bore the mark of the Black Sigil: a serpent coiled around a broken sun, etched in blood-dark steel across their breastplates. Their mounts—towering steeds with eyes glimmering faintly red—snorted and pawed at the marble floor as though eager for flesh.
"You know your prey," Valtheron said, his voice low and cruel. "My blind son. A traitor clothed in shadows. He hides in the bones of old ruins, clutching rats to his breast. Burn them out. Tear the stone from the earth if you must."
One rider raised his head. His helm was wrought with black horns, his voice a rasp of iron. "And if he resists?"
The King's smile was thin, colder than winter. "Then let the world know what becomes of traitors. Bring me his veil—or what remains of him."
A tremor ran through the dais below, chains groaning in protest. The caged storm stirred, hungering. Valtheron's eyes lingered on it only a moment before turning back to the horizon.
"Ride," he commanded. "And do not return without his ashes."
The Black Sigil riders bowed as one. Then, with a thunder of hooves and flame, they vanished into the night.
---
The Hollow Spire woke before dawn.
Rebels gathered in tight bands, packing what little could be carried—bread, water, scraps of armor. The wounded leaned on comrades or were carried on crude litters. Scarred Leader barked orders, forcing chaos into something resembling order.
Kael moved among them, every step a battle, but his presence steadied more than words could. They watched him—some with awe, some with fear—but none could deny the strange gravity that clung to him.
Liora kept to his side, her own strength faltering yet unbroken. When doubt flickered in her chest, Kael's hand brushed hers—small, fleeting touches, but enough to tether her.
Kaela walked a few paces ahead, ever the shield between him and the world. She said little, but her blade gleamed sharp, and her eyes scanned every shadow as though expecting it to strike.
Rylan ran ahead, scouting paths, restless as a flame in the wind. "Roads are watched," he warned when he returned. "Patrols are already moving. If the King's hunters are coming, they're closing fast."
Kael drew in a breath, steadying himself. He could almost feel it already—the thunder of hooves, the crack of burning steel, the storm creeping nearer.
"The hunt has begun," he whispered.
And as dawn bled pale across the horizon, the rebels slipped from the Hollow Spire—no longer just survivors, but prey running from the jaws of a kingdom.
Yet somewhere in the depths of Kael's blind gaze, fire stirred. Prey could become hunters. And storms, once unleashed, could not be caged again.
---