The wind howled over the scorched battlements of Ashmere Keep as Kael Valari stood alone in the shattered courtyard, the Sword of Emberfall burning quietly in his grip. Its flame did not consume, nor did it give warmth. It remembered. And in its memory was war.
The blade pulsed faintly, as if sensing something yet to come.
Behind him, Elyria and Thrain approached cautiously. The revenant knight's body had turned to dust, scattered to the wind. The dead had fled with his fall, and the land—for the first time in years—was quiet.
Too quiet.
The Sword Speaks
That night, Kael sat near the broken fountain at the center of Ashmere, the sword across his lap. Its edge shimmered, runes pulsing slowly. Elyria watched from the shadows, her arms wrapped around her knees.
"Do you feel it?" she asked quietly.
Kael nodded. "It's… calling something. Or answering."
He ran a finger along the blade. The runes flashed gold.
In an instant, the world tilted.
He was elsewhere.
A battlefield. The sky burned. Men screamed. Dragons wept fire.
At the center stood a figure in gold armor, the original wielder of Emberfall, cleaving through undead with every strike. His face was obscured, his crown broken.
And behind him—
Varethul, still human. Still crowned. Still... afraid.
Then the vision shattered.
Kael gasped, falling to one knee. Elyria rushed to him.
"What did you see?" she asked.
Kael looked up, eyes wide.
"The sword remembers the war that broke the world. And Varethul… he wasn't always a monster."
Thrain grunted. "Monsters rarely are."
The Flame Gate
The following morning, Kael followed the sword's pull.
It drew him down beneath Ashmere, through tunnels hidden since the days of the Ember Kings. Thrain deciphered ancient dwarven sigils on the walls, and Elyria's elven magic illuminated runes written in forgotten tongues.
At the lowest level, they found it: a great chamber sealed with fire-forged iron, covered in runes and ash.
Kael pressed the sword against the gate.
The flames parted.
Inside was a chamber of stone and crystal, and at its center hovered a relic—a small orb of flame suspended between four arching pillars, each engraved with the sigils of the ancient kingdoms.
The Relic of the Flame.
It drifted slowly in the air, humming like a distant heartbeat.
Kael stepped forward.
"Only the chosen may take it," Elyria warned. "If you are not worthy…"
He nodded.
And reached out.
The Trial of Fire
As his fingers closed around the relic, the world vanished.
Kael stood on a bridge of flame suspended in black void. Before him, five doors burned, each marked with a different rune—Elf, Dwarf, Human, Orc… and one unknown.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
You carry blood not meant to mix. Fire not meant to awaken.To take the relic, you must choose what you are.And what you are not.
Kael stepped toward the doors.
The Human door opened—inside, visions of glory: Kael on a throne, armies chanting his name.
He turned away.
The Elf door showed him Elyria in his arms, a forest untouched by war. Peace—but at the cost of turning from destiny.
He hesitated.
Then turned.
The Dwarf door revealed him as a smith—simple, humble, forgotten.
The Orc door was rage—Kael lost to flame, destroying all who opposed him.
He turned from each.
Finally, he stepped toward the final door, the unknown rune pulsing red and white.
Inside, there was nothing.
Just Kael.
Alone.
Without sword. Without crown. Without prophecy.
Just a man.
He stepped forward.
And was burned.
Rebirth
Kael awoke on the stone floor of the chamber, the Relic of Flame pulsing in his hand.
His skin was unburned, but sweat drenched his brow.
Elyria knelt beside him, eyes searching. "What happened?"
"I chose nothing," he whispered.
"Nothing?"
He nodded. "I didn't choose power. Or peace. Or rage. I chose… to be myself."
Thrain nodded slowly. "Sometimes, lad, that's the hardest choice of all."
Kael looked at the relic.
Its flames danced.
And then—without warning—the relic fused itself into the hilt of the Sword of Emberfall. The runes on the blade flared, forming new ones. The weapon pulsed with deeper power.
Kael rose.
"This is just the beginning."
Whispers in the North
Far to the north, beyond Gravemire and the edge of the living world, Varethul stood before a frozen mirror of black ice.
The image shifted.
Kael, blade in hand.
The Hollow King did not rage.
He smiled.
"He takes the first relic. As he must.""He becomes flame, so I may become shadow.""Soon, the Second Gate will open."
He turned to a chained creature behind him—once a dragon, now a beast of bone and blight.
"Let the wings of winter fly."
The Fire That Follows
As Kael, Elyria, and Thrain departed Ashmere, the sword now pulsing with relic-born flame, the air changed.
The stars above seemed to flicker.
And in the distant sky, a shape moved.
Wings.
A shadow.
Coming.
Kael looked toward the horizon.
"The next relic is waiting."
Elyria placed her hand in his.
"And so are the things that want to stop you."