Vareth lay nestled in a crater of black stone, encircled by jagged cliffs and an ever-present storm. The skies above churned with violet lightning, and the air pulsed with a dark hum that set Aran's teeth on edge. The ruins were older than the oldest texts, forbidden even to speak of in many kingdoms. And now, they were his path.
Vaerin stopped at the edge of the ridge. "Once we enter, your flame will draw every cursed spirit to you. They will see you as both threat and salvation."
Aran unsheathed his sword, which now glimmered with veins of molten gold—his bond with the Flame awakened. "Let them come."
They descended into the crater. The gates of Vareth, half-buried in ash and debris, loomed before them—twin monoliths of obsidian etched with runes Aran could now read. Blood. Flame. Promise.
He stepped forward, but the moment his foot touched the threshold, the gates screamed.
Not opened.
Shattered.
A shockwave burst outward, throwing Aran and Vaerin back. From the dust, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked in voidblack, its face an ever-shifting mask of anguish.
"Aran Thorne," it hissed, voice echoing with ancient sorrow. "You carry her mark. You cannot pass."
Aran stood, wincing, but steady. "I don't need your permission. I carry a promise."
The figure raised a hand, and the ground split. Shadows surged forth, clawing toward him. But Aran's flame answered.
He raised his sword. The Oathbrand blazed like a star. And he charged.