The Forge Temple had fallen into uneasy silence. Embers glowed in the braziers around the chamber, casting warm flickers across stone walls now stained with ash and battle. Outside, wind whispered through the mountain's throat—cold, high, and restless.
Kael sat cross-legged at the temple's heart, the staff laid before him. His hand rested lightly on it. The surface was cool, but beneath, something thrummed with pulse and memory—like a sleeping beast that dreamt in riddles.
Doran snored from his cloak nest near a crumbled column. One boot on, one boot off. He twitched in his sleep and muttered something about pickles.
Across the room, Arinya sat with her back to a pillar. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, cloak tight over her shoulders. The embers cast shadows under her eyes—dark with thought, or maybe something closer to fear.
Kael heard her breathing shift. He tilted his head.
"You're not asleep," he said softly.
"No," she replied, her voice quiet, thin. "I can't."
She hesitated before continuing.
"I haven't had a real night's sleep since I left Velhar. Always moving. Always hunted." Her voice cracked on the last word. "Sareth was supposed to be… safe. But he was more interested in owning than loving."
Kael listened without comment. He heard her wipe her face. Not a sob, not quite—but something had broken loose inside her.
"I didn't think I'd survive to see this place. Let alone with company."
Kael responded without turning. "You're not alone anymore."
Silence again. But this one was warmer.
Then—he stiffened.
A sound.
He rose silently, gripping the staff. His senses stretched outward. A rustle of cloth. A shift of weight on stone.
Arinya stood too, instantly alert. "What is it?"
Kael didn't answer. His hand tightened.
In the doorway stood a figure.
Thin. Hooded. Blade gleaming faintly in hand. No words. No warning.
The assassin lunged.
Kael moved faster.
Steel met staff with a sharp clang. The assassin was nimble, light on his feet, darting like a serpent. But Kael could see the rhythm in his steps, hear the subtle friction of boot on floor, feel every shift in weight.
They traded strikes in rapid succession—Kael deflecting blow after blow with seamless arcs of the staff, driving the assassin back.
"Arinya!" Kael shouted. "Wake Doran!"
"Already on it!" Doran shouted from under his blanket. "I'm awake, I'm awake—WHOA!" He dove aside as the assassin hurled a dagger in his direction.
Kael ducked and swept the attacker's legs, forcing him to stumble back. With a snap of movement, Kael jabbed the staff upward and slammed its butt against the assassin's chest. The impact sent him skidding into the far wall.
But instead of fleeing, the man hissed and threw something—a small sphere.
Smoke exploded.
"Damn it—Kael!" Arinya called.
He coughed, pushing through the smoke, senses dulled—
Then—
A flash.
Not of light.
Of memory.
The smoke swirled. And he wasn't in the Forge Temple anymore.
He stood on a battlefield. A different war. A different time. The ground burned beneath twin moons. Shadows clashed with fire-lit warriors, and above them stood a figure cloaked in gold, wielding a staff like a storm.
Kael looked down. His hands were the same.
The staff was the same.
But his name wasn't Kael.
It was Eiran.
The name echoed through the space.
"You bound yourself to the Relic of Ember," a voice whispered—a woman's voice, one he didn't recognize. "You gave up your sight… so you could see the truth."
Then—
He was back. Kneeling. Drenched in sweat.
The assassin was gone.
The others rushed to him.
"Kael?" Arinya knelt beside him, placing a hand to his cheek. "What happened?"
His breath came fast. "I… remembered something. A name. Eiran."
Doran scratched his head. "Eiran? Sounds elvish. Or like someone who definitely had good hair."
Kael ignored him. He turned the staff in his hand slowly. "It's not just bonded to me. I think it was me."
Arinya frowned. "You mean in another life?"
He nodded. "I saw a battle. This staff… I wielded it. Not like now. Like a god of war."
Doran leaned in. "Does this mean you can, like, shoot fireballs now? Or teleport?"
"No."
"Damn. What kind of relic is this?"
Arinya laughed suddenly—just a short, unexpected sound. The kind that catches you by surprise because it hasn't been heard in too long.
Kael turned toward her.
"I haven't laughed in weeks," she said. "It feels strange."
Kael gave the tiniest smirk. "Weird. You seem like the kind of person who'd laugh at my pain."
She grinned. "Only a little."
Doran yawned and dropped back onto his makeshift bed. "Well, if ancient assassin cults and traumatic flashbacks are the plan, I'm just gonna nap until the next surprise ambush."
But Kael didn't sleep.
He sat again, staff in hand, eyes closed.
And somewhere deep in his soul, the voice of the past whispered:
Eiran... the Ashbound.
He wasn't just carrying a legacy.
He was one.