Chapter 8: The Raven and the Flame
The Luther Clan's inner sanctum was colder than usual.
Deep beneath Luther Keep, where stone walls remembered blood and betrayal, Charles Luther, Grand Patriarch and the iron fist of the Clan, stood before a great map of the continent. His fingers, knotted with age but pulsing with aura, hovered over the northern reaches where the massacre had taken place.
Behind him, Adam Luther knelt—back straight, eyes sharp, every breath a restrained inferno.
"She survived," Charles said. "She turned a slaughter into a shrine."
Adam didn't speak.
"She buried the dead with her hands. Didn't even use aura. Villagers wept when she left. The Church is calling it a miracle."
Finally, Adam raised his head. "You sound disappointed."
Charles turned slowly, eyes like dying suns. "Disappointed? No. Proud."
He walked to the center of the war chamber, tapping his cane—a weapon carved from the fang of a dragon.
"She's proving herself. Faster than you."
Adam's jaw twitched.
"I'm the strongest."
"But strength," Charles said, "isn't just about how much aura you can unleash. It's about when you don't. She's learning that."
Adam rose now, his voice low. "Then send me. I'll stop her."
"No." Charles's voice turned to steel. "Let Raven move first."
---
In a burned citadel outside the Luther borders…
Raven Luther stood in a circle of candles, drawing blood across the stones. The runes flared with black fire as a cloaked figure entered the chamber.
"Is it done?" she asked without looking.
The figure—an agent of the Shadow Guild—nodded. "The village burned. Survivors blame the Emissary. Just as planned."
Raven dropped a bloodstone into the center of the circle. The air twisted, flickering between realms.
"She's burying the dead," Raven said.
"She always was too kind."
The agent chuckled. "And too proud. You sure you want her alive this long?"
"Yes," Raven said. "Because when I kill her, it won't be in the dark."
She turned, the flickering flame illuminating the black raven tattoo over her heart.
"It will be in front of the entire world."
---
A week later…
Jean stood before the walls of Blackridge, a disputed fortress between Luther and Magistery lands. Her two-year assessment had sent her there to reinforce its faltering garrison.
But this time, she wasn't sent alone.
A figure awaited her at the gates, armored in silver-trimmed black and bearing the mark of the Magistery.
Ryan Magus.
"Fancy meeting you here, Lady Light," he said, offering a smirk.
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Magistery soldiers don't usually help defend Luther territory."
Ryan bowed mockingly. "Then consider me a curious observer. Or perhaps… a prophet waiting for the next miracle."
Jean folded her arms. "Why are you really here?"
Ryan leaned close, eyes gleaming. "Because the dragons are stirring. And if we don't work together soon…"
He tapped her chest lightly, just above her heart.
"…your light will be the first to go out."
---
Beneath the Shadewood, a dragon stirred in the earth.
Its scales were cracked obsidian. Its eyes burned gold.
It had no name in the tongues of men—only one purpose:
To wake its Lord.
And far to the south, beneath the smoldering mountains, Antares, the Dragon Lord, shifted in his ancient sleep.
The wound Martin Luther gave him still pulsed like a brand across his chest.
Soon, it would heal.
And when it did, the skies would burn.
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