They reached Vlad's fortress under a moonless sky.
From the ridge above, it looked like a wound carved into the land—a jagged crown of stone, surrounded by walls of black iron and fire-lit towers. The air around it shimmered with heat and the faint tang of sulfur. The only road that led in was broken in half, as if the land itself had tried to pull away.
They didn't take the road.
Mike, Ren, and Aero moved under cover of dark, following a path through the cliffs that Ren remembered from long ago—before his life had been reduced to hiding. It was treacherous, narrow, and cold. The wind howled, but it covered their movements.
By dawn, they were beneath the outer wall.
Aero couldn't come with them—she was too large now, her wings too wide, her presence too commanding. She hid in the shadow of the cliffs, hidden and watching, ready to rise at a signal.
Mike looked back at her, then to Ren. "Let's get what we came for."
⸻
Inside, the fortress was a grave of echoes.
They slipped through a crumbled tunnel near the base—an old aqueduct that now served only as a drain for ash and melted snow. The interior halls were built not with symmetry, but with cruelty: angular passageways, narrow corners, staircases that climbed endlessly only to dead-end into nothing.
Symbols Mike recognized from the map flickered on the walls—twisted now, corrupted.
They moved quietly, listening, avoiding armored patrols that moved with mechanical precision. Once, they passed through a chamber filled with glass cases, each one holding artifacts—runes, weapons, bones. Mike's stomach turned when he saw one case that held a cracked bow almost identical to his own, its feathers long turned to dust.
Ren paled. "They were hunted."
"What?"
"Bloodline bows. There were others. My mother told me they each chose someone—a Speaker—before they vanished. Vlad destroyed most. Kept trophies of the ones he killed."
Mike's bow grew warm in his grip.
He pressed forward.
They finally reached the lower vaults—a damp chamber lit by hanging braziers, iron sconces, and shifting shadows. At its center stood a pedestal marked with a crescent and flame.
On the pedestal sat two items.
The first was a torn leather satchel, faded and familiar.
The second, a crystal disc—glowing faintly, nearly identical to the one Mike had buried with the teleportation device.
Mike's heart stopped.
Ren grabbed his shoulder. "That satchel—"
"It was my dad's."
Mike stepped forward, hands trembling.
He reached for the disc first. The moment his fingers touched it, visions pulsed through him:
• Tom Flowers, wounded but alive, fleeing across a bridge of broken glass.
• Moar, dragging someone through fire.
• Jake, young and whole, standing near a gate of light—before it shattered into nothing.
Mike cried out and staggered backward.
Something moved behind them.
Ren drew his blade—but it was too late.
A shadow stepped from the far wall, armored in ash and obsidian, face obscured by a horned mask.
General Moar.
"You've taken what is not yours. Again."
His voice was a blade—low, cruel, edged in hate.
Mike readied his bow.
Moar raised a hand and cast a ripple of force that hurled both boys across the chamber.
Mike slammed into the wall. Pain exploded through his side—sharper than before. Something cracked. He gasped, unable to stand.
Ren lunged at the general, blade flashing.
Moar caught it in one hand—and crushed it.
Then he raised his other hand.
"Your kind always believed you were chosen," he hissed. "You're not chosen. You're hunted."
He flung Ren aside and stepped toward Mike.
Mike, coughing, reached for his bow. His fingers were numb. His side screamed with pain. He saw the world through blurred vision—but Aero's face filled his mind.
"Now."
A cry split the fortress.
Aero plummeted through the ceiling, shattering iron and stone, wings flaring wide. Her talons struck Moar's chest and drove him back. She screamed again—louder this time—shaking the walls.
Ren scrambled to Mike's side and dragged him up. "We've got to go."
Mike clutched the satchel and the crystal.
Together, they fled through the broken vault, down narrow tunnels and collapsing bridges, back to the edge of the cliffs where Aero waited.
Mike collapsed against her side, pain blinding, ribs shattered. But he clung to the satchel.
Inside were pages. Letters. Maps. A journal with his father's name burned into the cover.
They rode Aero into the sky, the fortress crumbling behind them, smoke chasing them into the clouds.
⸻
They landed hours later, far from the reach of Vlad's scouts.
Ren wrapped Mike's ribs with what little cloth they had. "It's bad," he said. "We need real healing."
Mike only nodded. His eyes were locked on the satchel.
Inside, he found a letter. The ink was faded, but the words burned with familiarity.
"If you're reading this, it means the bow found you. It means you're stronger than I was. Find the others. Rebuild the gate. And speak. Speak for all of us."
He held the letter to his chest.
Ren sat beside him, quiet.
"They're not just hunting the bows," Mike said softly. "They're hunting the bloodline. The Speakers."
"And you're the last," Ren said.
Mike looked to the distant mountains, his breath shallow.
"Then it's time I start acting like it."