The sky above the rebel camp had turned to iron.
It was the kind of grey that promised neither storm nor peace — just waiting. Kaelen Virelth stood at the edge of a broken bridge overlooking the Vale of Echoes, staring toward the distant silhouette of Mount Erendis, its plume of smoke bleeding into the clouds like a bruise on the sky.
They had four days, maybe five, before the Dominion reached the mountain.
They would not get a sixth.
Inside the war tent, a circle of mismatched leaders gathered — farmers turned fighters, exiled mages, retired knights, scarred women who once wore crowns. The table bore an older map than the Dominion's: faded ink, torn edges, and notes written in three different languages, one of which no one dared speak aloud.
Maera Virelth leaned over the map with a scowl. "Even if we reach Erendis first, we can't breach the Vault."
"Not alone," Kaelen replied. "But we won't be alone."
That was when they heard the wings.
The tent flaps burst open as a lean, dark-haired woman in sky-burnished leathers stepped through, wind and smoke trailing from her cloak.
Rovanna Kael, Windborne Rider. Once a legend. Now outlaw.
"You said you needed fire," she said, unrolling a scroll marked in blood. "I brought wind and shadow."
Kaelen rose. "You made it through the Ashline?"
Rovanna smiled. "Three of us did. The others were less lucky."
"And your price?"
Her eyes glinted. "When the gods fall, I want what's left."
Kaelen turned back to the map. "We strike from the eastern ridge. Three units. No heavy steel. We use the old catacombs beneath the Sorrow Pass — they'll think we're coming from the front."
Maera raised an eyebrow. "You're trusting Dominion blueprints?"
"I'm trusting Serenya," he said before he could stop himself.
The silence that followed was not kind.
That night, Kaelen walked alone into the stone circle outside the camp — a place once used for executions, now for memory.
He lit a candle before each name carved into the walls.
Some had died by Dominion fire. Others by his own orders.
At the final name — Liora Virelth, his mother — he stopped.
"You once told me the gods were never real," he whispered.
Wind moved through the stones. The candle flickered. And then, slowly, went out.
Back in the command tent, Maera poured over the tactical scrolls. "If he's wrong," she muttered to herself, "we all die."
Beside her, Rovanna cleaned the edge of a thin obsidian blade.
"If he's right," Rovanna said with a grin, "the world does."
At dawn, Kaelen gave the order.
The rebels marched.
Not to conquer.
Not to claim.
But to steal a god's tomb before the devout could unlock it.
They carried no banners. No hymns. Only resolve.
And behind Kaelen's eyes, a memory returned — of Serenya's face in torchlight, whispering something he'd tried to forget:
"The First Flame doesn't burn alone. If you reach it first… don't touch it."
He didn't know if he could promise that.
He didn't know if he wanted to.