The air thins, growing crisp at this staggering altitude where the world falls away into a roiling sea of clouds. Jagged mountain peaks, like the bones of the earth, pierce the ethereal ocean. Across the horizon, the setting sun bleeds fiery orange and soft lavender, its light catching on a strange, violet streak that tears through the twilight sky. The wind whispers through the high pass, a lonely sound carrying the clean, metallic scent of cold stone.
An ancient path, its stones worn smooth by time, leads forward. It ends at a monumental gate, a silhouette of power and antiquity against the dying light, its curved roofs reaching skyward. To its side, nestled into the unforgiving cliff face, a grand temple complex rises in shadowed tiers.
Crowning the gate, within a dark crescent frame, a magnificent phoenix glows. It is a creature of vibrant, impossible crimson, pulsing with a soft, internal fire that casts a warm light against the encroaching gloom. A low, resonant hum seems to emanate from the very structure, a vibration felt in the soles of the feet and the depth of the chest.
Through the grand archway, the path continues, bathed in a welcoming shaft of golden light—a stark invitation into the unknown. Just then, a single, piercing note from a temple bell cuts through the immense silence. It is a sound of profound clarity, echoing in the vastness. Here is a threshold, a passage from one reality to another, where one journey ends and a new one is about to begin.
The sun had not yet broken past the jagged cliffs, but the Crimson Phoenix Sect was already awake.
Servants scrubbed the stone paths until steam rose. Disciples sparred in silence, blades flashing like whispers in dawnlight. Above them all, at the heart of the mountain-palace, loomed the crimson hall with its twin banners—one bearing the Phoenix in flight, the other folded and blank: a symbol of vacancy, of expectation.
And then… the crimson wind returned.
From beyond the southern pass, a single rider came. His hair, a trailing cascade of red silk. His eyes, sharp yet kind. Ashborn, son of the Crimson Flame, did not gallop—he arrived. Regal, quiet, unhurried.
By the time he stepped past the archway, his name had already echoed across the inner quarters. Attendants rushed to greet him, bowing too deeply to meet his gaze. But Ashborn only smiled and gave a slight nod, as though he were the one receiving them.
"Welcome home, young prince!"
"I trust your journey was clear?" asked another elder with thinning hair and a nervous tic.
Ashborn clasped both hands behind his back and offered a bow so shallow it was almost theatrical.
"Clear skies, Elder Yun. Though I must admit, it feels... stormier inside these walls."
That's when the second attendant stepped forward—this one dressed in black robes, bearing the sigil of the Inner Council.
"Zhen Wuheng summons you immediately."
The smile never left Ashborn's face. If anything, it deepened with amusement.
"To demand before welcome," he said softly. "How very... familial."
Crimson Throne Hall
This was not a room—it was a furnace forged into silence.
Red jade columns lined the walls, carved into phoenixes whose wings coiled upward. A single brazier burned in the center, and behind it, on a raised dais, sat the man whose will could shake a nation.
Zhen Wuheng.
He looked not at Ashborn first, but past him, as if waiting to see who else might dare return.
"Ashborn," he finally said, his voice as calm as buried lava. "Do you know why you stand before me?"
The prince bowed with perfect courtesy. "Because I came back."
"Wrong." The old man's tone dropped. "You stand here because you defied me."
Ashborn raised his head. "Is that so?"
"You made contact with that boy." The brazier flared at Wuheng's words. "Kazel."
The name echoed like a slap.
Ashborn did not flinch.
Wuheng rose slowly from the throne. "Did I not make myself clear? He is the one who shattered our lesser vessel. The Second Moon Sect fell because of him. Because of his hands."
"I remember your words, Patriarch," Ashborn said gently.
"Then you chose to ignore them." The old man's eyes narrowed. "You met him on the plains beside the Fang."
"Indeed. Where the bones of men sink into the earth, and the wind smells of truth."
"Don't speak in riddles to me, boy."
Ashborn's smile widened ever so slightly.
"I saw no monster on those plains," he said. "Only a man who stands alone. Just like I do."
Wuheng's eyes flared. "He is dangerous."
"And so am I."
A heavy silence fell. Somewhere, deep within the stone, a crack formed.
The Patriarch's voice lowered, sharper than any blade. "You owe this sect your loyalty."
"And you have it," Ashborn answered, stepping closer. "But loyalty does not mean blindness."
"He will betray you."
"Perhaps. But I'd rather be betrayed by a lion than obey a pack of cowards."
Wuheng took one step forward. For a moment, the fire between them surged, casting long shadows across the Phoenix Hall.
"You think yourself clever."
Ashborn's gaze was clear. "I think myself honest."
Wuheng looked into the boy's eyes—no, the man's—and what he saw there was not arrogance… but fire. Controlled, noble, and terribly calm.
At last, the Patriarch turned.
"You will remain in the Sect. Your every move will be watched. Your every word recorded. You will not make contact with him again. Am I understood?"
Ashborn bowed once more.
"Yes, Patriarch."
But his smile never faded.
The audience chamber's doors shut behind him with a thud that rang deeper than stone. Ashborn bowed lightly to the elders he passed along the corridor—men and women cloaked in seniority and silence, their eyes like dull knives.
He returned their nods with warmth and smile, polite as ever, regal as always.
None of them noticed the slight tension in his shoulder.
None of them saw how tight he held his breath.
He stepped past the last curtain of the Grand Hall and onto a wide balcony that overlooked the vast lands of the Crimson Phoenix Sect. The morning sun had finally risen above the jagged ridge, casting light over crimson-tiled roofs, flame-carved towers, and distant disciples fluttering like red leaves through the air.
This was one of the highest spots in the entire mountain palace — reserved for princes, not just by blood, but by bearing.
Ashborn stood there, wind brushing past his cheeks, long hair swaying like silk caught in firelight.
He sighed, soft and hollow.
( The enemy of my enemy… is my friend. )
His hand rested on the cold stone railing.
Then, without warning, his fingers gripped tight.
A crack echoed faintly as a thin fracture split the old granite.
His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding. His eyes, so often calm and noble, trembled.
"…Mother."
The word slipped from his lips like a curse and a prayer.
He stared far off — not at the sun, but beyond it. Past the valleys. Past the horizon. Back toward the Land of the Wolf, where secrets buried in blood still festered.
Behind him, the door to the balcony remained shut.
No one saw the pain etched in his clenched fist. No one saw the tear that didn't fall.
Ashborn—Prince of the Crimson Phoenix—stood alone at the peak.
But his fire was far from calm.