Dawn crept over the landscape like a ghost, turning the sky a bruised gold. The world below still slept, but Chris was already awake—geared, armed, and waiting.
He stood near the supply quarter of Hollow Ember, adjusting the straps on his travel harness as Mira approached, her flame-colored scarf already wrapped over her mouth. Her eyes were alert, and for the first time since they fled the outpost, she looked like a soldier rather than a fugitive.
"You ready?" she asked.
Chris didn't answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the thin curl of smoke rising from the Weeping Spires in the far distance—spires that twisted like ribs from the earth, sharp and bent, and always cloaked in a fog that moved unnaturally.
"We're going in blind," he muttered.
Mira cracked her knuckles. "That's how we live."
Maya joined them a moment later, flanked by two rebels—one a tall, silent woman named Talith with twin obsidian axes strapped to her back, and the other a scrawny, wide-eyed boy named Ren who carried a pouch of shimmerdust and never seemed to blink.
"Team's prepped," Maya said. "Four of you, one goal: get in, extract the shard, and get out without drawing the full wrath of the Dominion. Easy."
Chris arched a brow. "You always send kids to steal god relics?"
Maya smirked. "Only the ones I trust."
"Right," Chris said. "Because trust always works out."
She stepped closer, low enough for only him to hear. "This isn't just about the shard, Chris. It's about the world after it. We need more than firepower—we need symbols. People others will follow."
"You mean martyrs," he said coldly.
Maya didn't deny it.
They left at sunrise.
The journey to the Spires took a full day's march through sun-scorched canyons and dry riverbeds where the bones of long-dead beasts poked through the sand. Ren kept muttering facts no one asked for.
"The Weeping Spires are older than language," he said once. "Some say they were formed from the spines of the first god to die."
Mira didn't look back. "And some say you talk too much."
By nightfall, they reached the first ridge.
The Spires loomed ahead—dark, jagged towers wrapped in a perpetual mist that glowed faintly blue under the moonlight. The fog twisted like it was alive, curling around the spires like fingers.
Talith dropped to one knee and pressed her hand to the ground. "No movement," she said. "No patrols. That's not a good sign."
"It's never a good sign," Chris said.
They pressed forward in silence, climbing a narrow switchback path that spiraled up the side of one of the smaller spires. The rock underfoot was slick and warm—unnaturally so—and the air vibrated with something ancient, something wrong.
"This place is cursed," Mira whispered.
"Not cursed," Ren corrected. "Bound. The gods sealed something here long ago. What we call the shard is probably just a piece of that seal."
Chris glanced at him. "You sound like you've been here before."
"I dream about it," Ren said, eyes glassy. "Sometimes it whispers."
"Okay," Mira muttered, "I'm officially disturbed."
At the summit of the trail, they reached a broken altar half-buried in the stone. Behind it, a tunnel yawned open—ornate and rimmed with ancient runes pulsing with dim orange light.
The entrance to the temple.
Chris stepped forward, his heart thudding.
Maya's voice echoed in his mind: "A weapon forged by gods."
Whatever waited inside… it was older than the Dominion. Older than the rebellion. Older than even the Emberborn themselves.
The rebels lit their lanterns. The shadows recoiled.
And together, they stepped into the mountain.
The tunnel stretched downward at a harsh angle, the walls alive with humming glyphs and veins of emberstone that pulsed beneath the surface like molten blood. They moved slowly, weapons ready, every footstep echoing louder than it should have.
Then—movement ahead.
A pair of cold blue eyes opened in the dark.
Chris froze.
A relic unit—taller than a man, forged from blackened bone and metal, its limbs carved with sacred geometry. A Dominion crest was etched across its chest, glowing faintly.
It didn't attack.
Instead, it spoke—in a voice not human, not machine, but something in between.
"Designation: Zeviir. Clearance: denied."
Mira raised her hands. "Wait—Zeviir? You mean—"
The relic's eyes flared. "Unauthorized presence detected."
It surged forward.
Chris threw Mira aside just in time as the creature slammed down where she'd been standing, cracking the stone floor. Talith charged, axes flashing, but the relic caught one blade in mid-air and hurled her against the wall.
Ren screamed something unintelligible and flung shimmerdust, temporarily blinding the construct. Chris surged forward, moving faster than light, fists glowing with emberlight.
He struck the relic in the core—and it staggered.
"Everyone out!" Chris shouted.
"We haven't got the shard!" Mira yelled.
Chris turned—and saw it.
Behind the relic, embedded in a dais of black stone, a shard of crystal floated inside a containment field. The runes surrounding it pulsed red now. As if reacting to him.
Chris moved.
So did the relic.
But this time, Chris was faster.
He leapt, twisted mid-air, and smashed through the barrier with his fist. The shard flared with light—gold, white, burning.
He caught it as the relic's fist slammed into his back.
Everything went black.
Then—he heard Mira screaming his name.
And in the dark, something whispered:
Child of Flame… Brother of Embers… It's not just your world that burns.