The forest held its breath.
No wind stirred the ancient branches. No birds cried, no leaves whispered. Even the roots beneath their feet seemed frozen in quiet dread.
At the heart of the clearing stood the figure.... Vortan.
He did not draw a weapon. He did not raise his hands. He only watched them with that single open eye, the other sealed by an old scar that cut down his cheek like lightning through flesh. The visible eye burned not with flame, but with memory. Deep. Relentless. Ageless.
"Who dares to wake Vortan?" he asked again.
His voice was not loud. But it moved through the air like a blade, slicing silence in two.
Rayan stepped forward, sword in hand, its twin edge flickering with frost and shadowflame. The weapon pulsed softly, as if aware of the power standing before them.
"We didn't come to wake you," Rayan said, voice steady. "We came to end what should have stayed buried."
Malrick's fingers twitched around the hilt of his black blade. He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching, not in amusement, but in calculation.
Orien said nothing. But the temperature dropped the moment he took a step forward. A sheen of frost spread across the grass beneath his boots. His eyes glowed with a soft, unnatural light the kind born of prophecy, or perhaps regret.
Vortan blinked once.
Then smiled.
Not cruelly. Not warmly. But like a man who had waited centuries for this exact moment.
"You think this is your fight?" he said, tilting his head, crimson hair brushing his shoulders like living flame. "You three carry weapons forged by fire, blessed by dragons, and still you don't understand."
He raised his hand.
No weapon. No spell.
And the forest answered.
The trees groaned. Not from wind, but from memory. Roots twisted. Bark split. From the soil rose figures echoes of the dead, clad in armor of ash and sorrow, eyes hollow but filled with ancient purpose.
Specters of a war long forgotten.
Malrick reacted first. With a cry sharp as steel, he leapt forward, his blade a blur of darkness, cutting through the first ghost with brutal finality. The air screamed with its vanishing.
Rayan followed, flames coiling around him like living serpents, his sword cleaving through shadow and bone alike. Every swing sent bursts of molten air across the clearing, blackening the earth.
Orien moved like a storm frozen in time. His ice didn't just shatter enemies. It silenced them, froze their thoughts mid-scream. With a gesture, he turned three wraiths into statues of frost, then shattered them with a whisper.
But Vortan?
He did not fight.
He watched.
And slowly, calmly, he stepped forward through the chaos, untouched. Unbothered. The spirits fell, but more came. Endless. Tireless. Fed not by summoning, but by remembrance.
"You're not battling me," he said, voice low and almost mournful. "You're battling everything I've seen. Everything I've lost."
Malrick snarled, lunging again, but Vortan caught his wrist mid-strike. Not with magic. With hand. Flesh to flesh.
And Malrick screamed.
Visions surged into him cities burning, skies split by fire, a girl with silver eyes dying in his arms. Pain that wasn't his but felt like it. Too real. Too raw.
Rayan broke the contact with a roar, his blade crashing between them, fire blazing like a solar flare. Vortan stepped back not in retreat, but in respect.
"Impressive," he whispered.
Orien raised both hands now. No longer holding back. The air itself began to swirl. Snow fell from a sky that had not yet turned, and a dome of glimmering frost descended upon the clearing.
"End this," he said coldly. "Before the forest remembers more."
But Vortan... laughed.
And then he moved.
Faster than light.
He struck Orien first. A palm to the chest. The impact sent the mage flying backward, crashing through trees like glass. Before Rayan could react, Vortan turned, grabbed his sword by the blade, and held it no burn, no pain.. just that single burning eye meeting Rayan's.
"This blade was made to wound titans," Vortan murmured. "Are you certain you're ready to carry that weight?"
He released him with a shove that sent Rayan sprawling.
Only Malrick remained on his feet now, blood dripping from his nose, blade trembling in his grip.
Vortan faced him.
"You," he said. "You're the one who smiles to hide the rage. Tell me, boy… who did you lose?"
Malrick didn't answer. Instead, he charged not with fury, but with purpose. Every step precise. Every movement honed.
Their blades met.
And this time, Vortan faltered.
The impact shook the glade.
For a moment, it was only steel and silence.
And then....
Vortan staggered.
A thin line of blood traced down his pale cheek.
He touched it. Looked at it. Then smiled again.
"Good," he whispered. "Very good."
His hand burned now... flame without color, heat without warmth.
He raised it.
The sky darkened.
Lightning coiled. The earth beneath their feet cracked.
And at the center of it all stood Vortan, arms raised, voice rising like thunder.
"Let the forest bear witness. Let the sky remember.Let the flame that was sealed… be free."
And then the ground broke.
Not cracked shattered.
From beneath, something older than the forest stirred.
Something sealed by the same magic that birthed Drakenshold.Something… waiting for Vortan's voice.
The battle was no longer just against a man.
It was against a memory too powerful to forget…and a fire that remembered every name it ever burned.