The northern ridge was unlike the previous site. Here, the land had not been scorched or dissolved; instead, it had been twisted.
The trees grew in unnatural spirals, bark warped with runes that pulsed faintly in the shadows. The air felt thinner, not due to altitude, but distortion—as though something had bent reality in this place and left it barely stitched back together.
Kahel stepped from the transport array with Lyren at his side. Behind them, four disciples fanned out—two from the inner court, two fresh initiates assigned for scouting. Each bore a warding charm on their chest, flickering faintly in the corrupted air.
"We're close," Lyren said, drawing her bow.
Kahel nodded. The Ashen Flame was restless. It pulsed at the edge of his skin, not in fear, but like a candle drawn to another spark.
He led the way through the forest, his steps slow, senses extended. Every creak of bark, every birdless silence set his nerves alight. But it wasn't until they crossed the ridge and saw the ruins below that he understood the difference.
This wasn't a destroyed outpost.
It was a gate.
Set into the mountainside like a wound, the structure was ancient—even older than the valley. Made from dark stone laced with silver, it resembled the gates found in High Worlds: constructs designed not to keep people out, but to keep something in.
Kahel approached slowly, his breath fogging in the chill air. Runes surrounded the archway, many still intact. But in the center of the gate's base, a single glyph had been shattered—broken from within.
Lyren crouched near the fracture, running a gloved finger over the scorched stone. "This wasn't opened. It burst."
Kahel felt the Flame stir violently. He placed his hand against the gate.
It hummed in response.
A voice echoed faintly—not in the air, but in his mind.
"He waits beneath."
Kahel stumbled back.
Lyren was at his side in an instant, her bow raised, scanning the shadows. "What did you hear?"
"A voice. Not like the one in the chamber. Older. Angrier."
"The gate is active. Barely. Something's bleeding through."
Kahel steadied himself. He turned to the others. "No one touches it. Not until we understand what it's anchoring."
The disciples began setting formation markers around the clearing, building a ring of qi to contain any potential flux. As they worked, Lyren stood close to Kahel, her expression unreadable.
"What did Enlai say about this place?"
Kahel shook his head. "Only that another post had fallen. He didn't mention a gate."
"Then he didn't know. Or he didn't want us to."
The Flame inside Kahel flickered uneasily. His connection to it, once clear and steady, now swelled with irregular surges. The gate had awakened something. And not just within the world—within him.
That night, they camped just outside the clearing. Wards surrounded them, and each disciple took a turn at watch. Kahel did not sleep. The Flame kept him alert, restless, watching the gate even from a distance.
He sat on a stone at the edge of camp, eyes fixed on the archway that loomed in the moonlight. Lyren approached and sat beside him.
"You're hearing it still," she said, not asking.
Kahel nodded. "It whispers without words. Like an old heartbeat echoing through stone."
She rested her bow across her knees. "You think it's calling you?"
"It knows me. Or the Flame. Maybe both."
Lyren hesitated, then said, "If you go through… I'll go with you."
Kahel looked at her. "Why?"
"Because the last time I let someone walk alone into the dark, they never came back."
He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you."
In the early hours before dawn, a whisper woke him.
He sat up.
The air was still. The others were asleep. Even Lyren had drifted into meditation.
The whisper came again.
Not a word. A feeling.
Compulsion.
He rose silently and walked toward the gate.
As he neared, a shape emerged from the treeline. Cloaked, faceless, the same as those they had fought before—but this one did not move to attack.
It knelt.
Kahel froze.
The figure slowly raised its hand and placed something at the edge of the stone. A scroll.
Then it turned and vanished into mist.
Kahel picked up the scroll, unrolling it carefully.
The writing was jagged, dark, burned into the paper with energy rather than ink. It read:
"Stormborn. Come. Below, the truth waits. The Flame remembers."
He stared at the words, his heart hammering.
The gate pulsed faintly.
The Flame flared.
And Kahel knew:
This was not just a mission anymore. It was a summons.
From what?
He didn't know.
But he would answer it.
And whatever waited below would have to face the fire.
This time, he would not go as a lost disciple.
He would go as the heir of the Flame.