Chapter 4: The Masked Flame
Far to the south, beyond the ruins of Kireth and the poisoned rivers of Elar, a tower of obsidian rose from the sands like a wound upon the earth.
Within it, he waited.
The room was round, windowless, lit only by a circle of violet fire. Symbols covered the walls—sigils older than the kingdoms, drawn in blood that never dried.
A servant entered, crawling.
"My lord… the mark has awakened."
Silence.
Then the masked man stood.
His mask was silver this time—featureless, cold, and perfect. His robes flowed like shadow and fire.
"And the boy?" he asked, voice echoing as if spoken by many.
"He lives. In Therin. The priest broke the seal."
The man walked slowly to the flames. They pulsed with visions: a child screaming, a book opening, a sigil burning.
"So it begins again," he murmured.
He turned to the servant. "Send the Hand of Cinders. Burn the village. Leave no name to be remembered."
The servant bowed so low his forehead bled against the stone.
"Yes, Flamefather."
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Back in Therin, Darien looked to the sky.
The stars were still gone.
But in the distance, far beyond the cliffs...
A red glow rose—like fire walking across the horizon.