Kael's dreams were red again.
Not the kind of red that brought warmth, like the flicker of a hearth fire on a winter's eve. No—this was the color of blood drying on cracked stone, of firelight dancing on ruined walls, of a kingdom burnt down to its last breath.
He stood at the center of it all, barefoot, the ash so thick around him it clung to his lungs like guilt. The wind whispered in tongues he hadn't heard since childhood, voices of the dead echoing from a time he'd long buried.
"You swore an oath, Kael Azreth," came the voice again—hers. Always hers.
Kael turned. The woman stood at the edge of his vision, half-shrouded in smoke. The outline of her silver armor glinted, even here in this dreamscape of ruin. Her eyes burned—not with anger, but with judgment. Eternal. Undying.
"I know," Kael murmured.
The ash beneath his feet shifted, and from it rose a sword. Not just any blade—it was his. The one he had cast away the night the kingdom fell, the one forged with oaths etched in its core. He stared at it, the hilt blackened, runes still faintly glowing.
And then—
He woke.
The campfire had nearly died out, reduced to glowing embers that pulsed like a slowing heartbeat. Kael sat up slowly, muscles stiff from the cold and from the night's memories. His companions were asleep, or pretending to be. Only the wind stirred beyond the trees.
Across from him, Varin lay still, but his eyes flicked open when Kael shifted.
"Nightmares again?" the rogue asked quietly.
Kael didn't answer. The answer was always yes.
Varin sat up and stretched, his voice low. "We're close to the pass. Another day, maybe two, if the storms hold. Then—gods willing—we reach the Shrine."
Kael nodded. "And then what?"
"Then you do what you came here to do. Call on the gods. Wake the powers that sleep. Ask for a miracle, I suppose."
Kael's jaw tensed. "Miracles died with my kingdom."
"Then wake the dead," Varin replied, deadpan. "Seems more your style."
Kael didn't respond. He stood and walked toward the edge of camp, where the dark trees gave way to open cliffs. The stars were fading now, chased by the pale blue of early dawn. Somewhere far below, the world stretched out in forgotten valleys and lost roads. Somewhere out there was a path forward. Or a grave.
By midmorning, they were moving again.
The trail narrowed as the mountains pressed in. The path, once used by wandering priests and hidden pilgrims, now felt more like a scar through the stone. Thorned vines choked the ruins of old shrines. Symbols of the old gods had been scratched out, desecrated. Kael's fingers brushed the broken altar as they passed.
"Who would do this?" Aerin asked softly.
She had joined them days ago, quiet but determined. A healer from the borderlands, seeking the same answers Kael did—though perhaps not for vengeance. Her reasons were still shrouded.
"Someone afraid," Kael answered. "Or someone who hates what the gods left behind."
"Do the gods still watch?" she whispered.
"I hope not," he muttered. "I've done too much for them to care."
A silence followed, heavy but not uncomfortable. Only the wind through the pass answered.
By nightfall, they reached the edge of the cliffs.
And there, beyond a jagged drop, stood the Shrine of Ashenar.
It wasn't a temple in the traditional sense. No marble spires. No gold icons. Just stone, black as obsidian, rising out of the cliffside like it had clawed its way out of the world's wound. Flame still flickered in the brazier at the peak, though no soul had lit it in centuries.
"It still burns," Varin said, almost in awe. "How?"
"The flame of Ashenar never dies," Kael replied. "Not while the bloodline still breathes."
Varin glanced at him. "You mean your bloodline?"
Kael didn't answer. He stepped forward, past the final broken statue of a god with no name. His breath fogged in the air as he placed a hand against the cold stone of the shrine. The runes were old, carved by his ancestors. He could almost hear them whisper beneath his palm.
He turned to the others. "Stay here. This is my burden."
Aerin hesitated. "Kael—"
But he was already walking into the dark.
Inside, the shrine was silent.
No spiders. No dust. Just shadow and stone. Kael's boots echoed across the floor as he made his way to the altar in the center. On it sat the relic—the Emberheart, pulsing faintly with crimson light.
He reached out. The moment his fingers touched the relic, the world shifted.
The air thickened. The walls seemed to breathe. And from the shadows, something ancient stirred.
A voice filled the chamber, low and echoing. "You return, oathbreaker."
Kael didn't flinch. "I come to finish what I started."
"You abandoned your oath. You left the flame to die."
"I buried it because the world deserved peace."
"And did the world find peace?"
Kael's silence was answer enough.
The shadows coalesced, forming a figure of ash and flame—neither man nor god, but something older. It stepped toward Kael, towering and silent for a long beat.
"Then let us see if you still remember what was promised."
The flame surged—and Kael fell into memory.
He stood once more at the gates of Vareth, his home before the fall. The skies were red, the enemy banners rising in the distance. His hand clenched the hilt of the very sword he now refused to carry. His father's voice echoed in his ears:
"Swear it, Kael. Swear to protect this land, no matter the cost."
He had sworn. Gods help him, he had sworn.
And then, he had failed.
The vision faded. Kael was on his knees now, sweat on his brow, breath ragged.
The figure of flame circled him.
"You carry the ashes of a thousand dead. What will you do with them now?"
Kael stood.
"I'll make them a fire the world can't ignore."
Outside, the storm had arrived. Wind howled through the pass. Lightning split the sky.
Aerin and Varin looked up as the brazier atop the shrine flared—white-hot, blinding.
Kael emerged, eyes burning with something new.
Not hope. Not vengeance.
Purpose.