The expedition to the south hills began at dawn.
Zareena rode ahead on a borrowed mare, flanked by Sira the firemage and a small scouting unit. The air was thick with the smell of thawing mud and pine, the snow receding like a breath held too long.
The farmers once abandoned this land claiming it was cursed. The soil refused to take seed. The wells always ran dry. And yet, no snow had fallen here—not even in the deep heart of winter.
That, Sira claimed, was a sign.
They stopped at the base of a barren rise, the earth cracked and warm to the touch. Not steaming, but gently radiating heat like sun-warmed stone.
A sergeant knelt, brushing the dirt with his gloved hand. "This shouldn't be happening. Not in weather like this."
Sira stepped forward and placed her palm directly against the soil. Her lips moved in a whisper, a spell Zareena didn't recognize.
The ground responded.
A tremor ran through it—like something shifting far below. Not a quake, not a threat… a pulse. Slow. Ancient. Familiar to the mage, who stood suddenly straighter.
"It's not fire," she said. "It's older. Rooted. A sleeping heart."
Zareena's eyes narrowed. "Is it dangerous?"
Sira turned to her, flame dancing along her knuckles.
"Everything that's powerful is dangerous."
They marked the area and returned with caution, but the warmth lingered in Zareena's mind. Something beneath those hills pulsed with forgotten energy—something that could be the key to Vireloch's survival. Or its undoing.
As they returned to the garrison, the gates welcomed them with uneasy eyes.
No one had noticed the rider that passed them on the southern trail. A courier cloaked in brown and bearing false insignia. Headed for the western edge of Vireloch, where sympathizers to Marcerov still whispered in locked taverns.
The earth had stirred beneath their feet.
And in the shadows, so had the enemy