The sky above Emberwatch Fortress was always overcast.
Grey clouds churned like a pot nearing boil, refusing to part. The sun was a memory here—one that hadn't shown itself in weeks. Every inch of the sky wore gloom like armor, and not even the sharp winds dared disturb it.
Inside the eastern wing, nestled between crumbling stone and steel, Shakes Burnedead sat alone in the Den Hunter barracks.
The chamber was silent save for the low hum of a glyph lantern. Its light flickered gently across Severflame, which leaned against the wall like a sleeping beast. Dust clung to the sword's hilt. He hadn't touched it since returning from the last mission.
His eyes, half-lidded and heavy, stared at the object in his hand.
A letter.
He had removed it from the folds of his robe more than an hour ago, yet he hadn't broken the seal. His thumb ran across the wax. Dull red. Stained with soot. Pressed into it was a symbol that turned his stomach cold.
A wolf split in half by a flaming sword.
His father's mark.
Impossible.
Gavren Burnedead was long dead—claimed by a Dweller Lord deep within the Black Maw Den. There had been no body to bury. Only fragments of armor, charred and melted, returned by the Order with little ceremony. Shakes had been twelve.
He had memorized the look of that old seal, though. Every line of it. Every detail burned into his memory like a brand.
And yet, this parchment felt old. It smelled of ash and mountain stone. Like it had traveled through places no man should walk.
Still, he hesitated.
Why now?
Why this?
Eventually, his fingers clenched, and he broke the wax.
> "Shakes,
If you're reading this, then it means my fire wasn't enough. But maybe yours will be.
There are things even the Order doesn't understand. Dens that weren't made by Dwellers—but by something worse.
If the Crowned are waking, find the Ashborn. Start with the one called Vellion.
Trust no high rank.
Burn what must be burned."
No signature.
But Shakes didn't need one.
He folded the letter with care, like a relic, and tucked it inside the inner lining of his coat. Slowly, he stood, the motion deliberate, weighty. As if something had shifted inside him.
Outside the barracks, Zera leaned casually on her staff. The flame-shaped gem at its tip flickered faintly as if sensing his intent. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him.
"You finally moved," she said dryly.
He gave a slow nod.
"I need to leave Emberwatch," he said.
Lucen, seated nearby with his gauntlets laid across his lap, looked up from sharpening the claws. The sparks danced between his fingers. "That fast? Where you going this time?"
Shakes hesitated. "Just scouting some Dens. Might be nothing."
He didn't elaborate, and they didn't press.
The Order allowed solo investigations, but only for trusted Hunters—and Shakes was more than trusted. He was feared. The one who never faltered. The Flame in Human Form.
Still, Oric pulled him aside before he left.
"You smell of vengeance, Burnedead," the warrior said, his voice a low growl. "That's good in a fight. Bad in the thinking. Keep your head clear."
Shakes didn't answer. He simply nodded and walked into the mist.
The trail to the Spine Crags was narrow and half-swallowed by nature's fury. Dead trees, their limbs twisted like melted wax, formed grotesque arches over the path. The ground was cracked from past eruptions—wounds left by Den breaks years ago. No birds sang. Only the distant creak of the wind through the broken earth gave any rhythm to the silence.
Shakes walked without pause. Each step was precise, driven, unshaken.
Then he felt it.
A presence. Not quite hostile. Not quite hidden. But watching.
He stopped and drew Severflame with a smooth motion, its blade pulsing faintly with warmth. His voice was low, cold.
"Show yourself."
A moment passed.
Then—
"Whoa, whoa. Take it easy, not a bad girl. I mean no harm."
The voice was calm, almost playful. Feminine.
From behind a crumbling stone altar stepped a girl almost the same age as Shakes. Her hair was silver-white, trailing like mist down her back. Her eyes shimmered, silver with cracks of red, like dying stars.
She looked him over slowly. "You carry Severflame. The sword that chooses its bearer."
He kept his guard up. "Who are you?"
"I'm Vellion."
His breath caught.
Vellion of the Ashborn.
The name from the letter. The one his father had trusted. The one the Order never spoke of.
They didn't fight. Instead, they sat across from each other near a small campfire that Vellion lit with a wave of her hand. The flames flickered a strange, bluish hue.
She didn't eat. Barely blinked. As if she existed halfway between worlds.
"I know what you're searching for," she said, staring into the fire. "You think the Crowned are a new threat. But they're ancient. Older than the monsters your kind hunts."
"You're a Den Hunter?"
"No. I was part of something older. The Ashborn were created to destroy what even Dwellers fear." She glanced at him. "Dwellers are like pets to the Ashborn."
He frowned. "Like what?"
Vellion looked to the grey sky. "The Deep Flame. A sentience beneath the Dens. It feeds on hatred, on grief. It doesn't create monsters. It creates curses."
His hand instinctively tightened on his coat.
"And my father?"
"If he reached the Maw Den and died... then he saw the edge of that sentience. The Maw is one of three known Origin Dens. Places where the Deep Flame first surfaced."
The fire popped. Somewhere beyond the hills, a howl echoed—long and sorrowful.
Vellion didn't flinch.
"If you want answers, you'll have to go to the next Origin Den," she continued. "The Hollow Ember."
Shakes stared at her. "Why should I trust you?"
She turned her gaze on him, eyes glinting like shattered glass. "Because I know more than you think. You want revenge for your father? I hold the key."
His mouth opened to speak, but—
"Shhh." She raised a finger, eyes sharp. "Enough. Let's start our journey."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
They traveled in silence for hours, passing landscapes scarred by old battles. Ruined watchtowers. Collapsed shrines. Nature had begun to reclaim it all, but the marks of horror remained. Trees shaped like screaming faces. Stones that bled ash.
Eventually, they reached an abandoned village.
No birds. No insects. Only statues—ash-grey figures of people mid-motion. Some reaching out. Others curled up. All frozen in expressions of pain.
Shakes approached one, hesitant. A woman clutched a child, both turned to cinders.
"There's no Den here," he muttered.
"No," Vellion said. "But the Deep Flame doesn't need a Den. Not always."
She reached out and touched one of the ash statues. The surface crumbled slightly beneath her fingertips.
"This is its mark. It doesn't just make monsters. It burns away the soul."
Shakes stepped back, feeling the air itself coil around his lungs.
They didn't speak much after that.
As night began to fall, they set camp in the remnants of what looked like an old tavern. The roof was mostly gone, and the stars remained hidden behind the churning sky. The air grew colder with every passing hour.
Vellion lay down against a stone wall, arms folded, her breath barely visible.
Shakes stayed awake. Watching. Thinking.
Eventually, he stood and removed his coat, laying it gently over her.
She didn't stir.
He sat down beside the dying fire, Severflame across his lap. Its edge flickered with faint red, pulsing in rhythm with something unseen.
He stared at the flames until sleep finally claimed him.
That night, he dreamed of fire.
A tower of ash loomed over him. His father stood at its base, swordless, alone. Flames roared all around, but none touched Gavren Burnedead.
He turned his head, and whispered his son's name.
"Shakes…"
The ash screamed.
He awoke with sweat on his brow, heart pounding, and the faintest whisper still curling in his ears like smoke.
To be continued....