The air trembled.
From the sanctum's upper halls, the pounding footsteps of the enemy grew louder—closer. Dust fell in rivulets from ancient archways. Torches sputtered. The Emberlight itself seemed to brace for war.
Kael stood at the foot of the stairway, Ashreign in his right hand, Vaelburn in his left—twin flames burning like suns from either side of him. The others flanked him, battle-worn but unbroken.
Ysera whispered an incantation, casting a glowing sigil at the threshold. "This'll slow them. Not stop them."
"It'll be enough," Kael said.
The wall exploded.
The ward flared brilliantly—then shattered.
Smoke and rubble poured in. Through the dust, the enemy revealed themselves.
They weren't soldiers.
They were Forged.
Grotesque beings of metal and flesh, branded with the sigil of the Cindral Dominion, their limbs twisted into blades, spines lined with gears, hearts beating molten fire. Dozens poured through the breach, led by a towering brute with a hammer-arm and a shattered mask fused to its face.
"Kael of Ashreign!" it bellowed in a voice not its own. "Return the Ember or burn."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Come and take it."
He hurled himself forward.
Ashreign screamed flame. Vaelburn shimmered with light. Kael became a storm—spinning, slashing, unleashing arcs of raw power that sent enemies sprawling in flame and fury.
Thorne charged beside him, hammer crashing through skull and steel. Mira blinked between shadows, daggers flashing. Ysera launched radiant bolts into the crowd while Serana twisted the minds of the weaker Forged, turning them on each other.
But they kept coming.
The lead brute crashed into Kael, sending him flying into a pillar. He rose, blood trickling down his brow, and growled. Both blades pulsed in his hands, and his aura surged.
He wasn't just fighting with the blades.
They were fighting through him.
"Light the pyre," Kael whispered.
And with a roar, he drove Ashreign into the ground. A ring of flame erupted outward, incinerating Forged in a storm of fire. Vaelburn followed, lashing upward with golden light that scorched the ceiling.
The rest of the horde fled.
The brute, now scorched and staggering, tried to retreat—but Kael hurled Vaelburn like a spear. It struck true, piercing the creature's chest.
As it dissolved in flame, it hissed its last words:
"He sees you… Flamebearer…"
Ash covered the floor like snow. The sanctum walls glowed faintly, scorched yet standing. Kael stood amidst the ruin, both Ember Blades sheathed, his chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Around him, silence reigned—until Serana broke it.
"They were speaking through that Forged," she said quietly. "That wasn't its voice."
"Then whose was it?" Mira asked, wiping blood from her blade.
Ysera knelt beside the crumbling husk of the brute, pressing her hand to its chest. Her eyes widened as her magic probed the last lingering traces of its essence.
"It's… ancient. Twisted. A presence far beyond this one creature. Whatever he is—he's watching through them."
Kael's jaw clenched. "He called me Flamebearer."
"That title hasn't been spoken aloud in over three thousand years," Ysera said.
"And yet," Thorne added, "somehow he knows you hold not one, but two Ember Blades."
Kael turned to the others, his voice steady despite the weight he carried. "There's no doubt now. This war—it's more than survival. It's about awakening something older, deeper. The blades… the pyres… the Forgebound… It's all connected."
Serana stepped beside him. "Then it's time we seek the next blade."
Kael nodded. "There are seven."
"Six remaining," Ysera said, "if the legends are true. The next lies beneath the city of Valethar. In the Catacombs of Emberglass."
Thorne frowned. "We'll be walking into another death trap."
Kael gave a small, grim smile. "Good. Let them try."
But before they could take another step, the broken runes along the sanctum walls flared once more—only this time, they spoke.
A voice echoed in every mind present, hollow and distant, like wind whistling through a tomb.
"He comes. The one beneath the mountains. The pyre must be fed… or all flames will die."
Kael looked to the others.
"Then we feed it."
Valethar was a city of towers and stone bridges, cloaked in pale fog that never lifted. Its people bustled through narrow streets, unaware that beneath their feet, a forgotten war slumbered.
Kael and his companions arrived at dusk, cloaked and cautious. The guards gave them no more than a passing glance; travelers were common in Valethar. What mattered lay below.
"The entrance is sealed beneath the old chapel," Ysera whispered, her voice barely audible as they entered a crumbling sanctuary near the city's edge.
Dust choked the air. Vines strangled broken pews. And in the center, a slab of blackened glass—a door, hidden for centuries.
Thorne knelt, tracing the surface. "This is Emberglass."
Ysera nodded. "The catacombs were forged in fire magic. The only way in… is with flame."
Kael stepped forward and unsheathed Vaelburn. The moment the blade neared the glass, the slab shimmered. Lines of glowing script ignited across it like veins awakening. Then—with a pulse—it cracked and sank into the floor.
A spiral staircase awaited, descending into darkness.
They entered.
The catacombs breathed ancient heat, but the air was not warm. It was heavy. Oppressive. Whispered voices slithered across the stone like smoke. The walls were engraved with stories—of fire gods, fallen kings, and a blade locked within a prison of soulflame.
Mira squinted at the runes. "This place was never meant to be found."
"No," Kael agreed. "It was meant to be feared."
As they delved deeper, torches lit themselves at their passing, and the path narrowed to a single bridge above a chasm of molten glass.
Then the whispers stopped.
And something laughed.
From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in emberlight, eyes burning white, armored in obsidian plates etched with moving fire.
It bowed.
"Flamebearer. I am Malchros, Warden of the Third Pyre. You seek the blade below. But to claim it…"
The air thickened. Malchros drew a curved blade of heatless flame.
"…you must walk through your own soul—and survive its fire."
Kael stepped forward, Ashreign glowing red.
"I've burned before."
Malchros raised his blade, and the catacombs shuddered.
The bridge cracked behind Kael and his companions, cutting off retreat. Emberlight flared along the ancient runes as the very stone beneath their feet rearranged itself, spiraling into a wide chamber with no ceiling—only blackness above, and a lake of shimmering glass below.
Kael stepped forward alone.
Malchros pointed to a pedestal at the chamber's center. "Place both Ember Blades there. None may face the Trial armed."
Kael hesitated. Ashreign pulsed. Vaelburn hissed.
"They fear what lies ahead," Malchros said. "As should you."
Kael planted both blades into the pedestal. Immediately, they vanished into fire.
The chamber fell silent.
Then the Trial began.
Flames erupted around Kael—blue, not red. Cold, not hot. They wrapped around his body and pulled—tearing at something deeper than flesh.
Suddenly, Kael stood not in the catacombs…
…but on the battlefield where his father died.
He was fifteen again. Small. Weak. Powerless.
His father, General Alorion, screamed as the Dominion's cursed arrow struck him in the heart. Kael rushed forward—but his feet moved too slowly. His hands could not reach. His voice could not scream loud enough.
He failed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time the arrow flew, Kael watched his father fall, unable to stop it. A hundred times. A thousand.
Until Kael collapsed, shaking.
Then he heard a voice—not Malchros, but his own—older, twisted, broken.
"You will never be strong enough. You chase revenge, not justice. You carry blades you do not deserve."
Kael raised his head, trembling.
"I don't need to be enough," he whispered. "I just need to keep fighting."
He stood.
The illusions shattered.
The catacombs returned.
Malchros stared, unreadable. "You faced regret, and did not break."
Kael stepped to the pedestal. The two Ember Blades returned—glowing brighter than before.
But beside them… a third blade rose.
Its hilt was silver flame. Its edge was black glass, shifting like smoke.
"The Soulflame Blade," Malchros intoned. "Only those who master pain may wield it."
Kael took it.
And the flame did not burn him.
The moment Kael grasped the Soulflame Blade, the chamber darkened. The fires that lined the walls flickered and vanished, leaving only the ghostly glow of the blade itself—silver fire and shadow dancing along its edge.
The others stood at the far end, watching, but unmoving. Time itself felt slowed, suspended in reverence.
Malchros bowed low.
"You are now bearer of three. The Soulflame is bound to you, as your pain is bound to your past. Few could endure its truth. Fewer could survive its test."
Kael studied the weapon. It hummed not with fury, but grief—as if it mourned the battles to come.
Serana approached warily, eyes fixed on the blade. "It's alive."
"It remembers," Kael said, voice low. "It speaks without words… like it's always known me."
Thorne gave a small scoff. "Three blades, three flames, and now a talking sword. If your destiny gets any heavier, we'll need a second horse."
Ysera stepped forward, more serious. "With the Soulflame, you'll attract worse than Forged. The old ones—those buried in the bones of the world—they will feel its awakening."
Kael nodded. "Let them come."
But before they could exit the chamber, the ground trembled. The lake of molten glass boiled and erupted in a cyclone of light. A voice bellowed from below—ancient, echoing through every stone.
"THIRD PYRE CLAIMED. BALANCE SHIFTS. THE SLEEPERS STIR."
Ysera's eyes widened in horror. "That wasn't part of the Trial…"
Malchros turned toward the sound, his expression grim. "The blade's awakening has echoed beyond this realm. You must move quickly. Valethar is no longer safe."
"Where do we go next?" Mira asked.
Malchros raised a hand, tracing a burning sigil in the air—an ancient map of the realm appeared, centered on a dark spire surrounded by ash.
"The Fourth Pyre burns within the Hollowspire. A city lost to time. A prison for flame-born traitors."
Kael sheathed the Soulflame Blade alongside Ashreign and Vaelburn. "Then that's where we go."
Malchros's image began to fade. "Be warned, Flamebearer… the path grows darker with each blade claimed. Fire may guide you—but shadow watches."
And with that, he vanished.
Kael turned to the others. "To Hollowspire."
And so they began again—deeper into the fire.