The wind carried the scent of ash and old fire as Kael and Arien stood in the war chamber, the letter from the grey rider resting between them. Every flicker of the torches on the walls seemed to whisper of things long buried.
"Emberstone…" Arien murmured again, her brow furrowed. "If it exists, it's said to hold the soul of the First Flame itself."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Then it's exactly what our enemies would want."
They weren't alone in the chamber. Elandra, now Archmage of the restored High Circle, stepped forward from the shadows. "You're right to be wary," she said, her violet robes swirling behind her. "The Emberstone was created during the Great Sundering—when magic tore the world into three realms. It was never meant to be found again."
"And yet someone is searching for it," Kael said, handing her the letter.
Elandra scanned the words, her fingers trembling slightly. "The sigil on this seal... it belongs to the Order of Black Flame."
Arien's heart skipped a beat. "I thought they were destroyed during the Siege of Hollowspire."
"They were," Elandra answered grimly. "Or so we believed. But if even one of their elders survived..."
Kael looked between them. "Then the war is not over."
A hush fell over the room.
Moments later, footsteps echoed down the corridor. General Thorne entered, fresh from patrol. His armor was still dusted with the red sand of the western border.
"There's movement in the Dead Lands," he said without preamble. "Strange fires at night. No army. No camps. Just... shadows."
Arien's voice was firm. "Then we go west. If the Emberstone is real, we cannot wait for darkness to strike first."
Elandra hesitated. "The path to the Emberstone leads through the Forgotten Vale. The veil between realms is thin there. You may find more than you seek."
Kael sheathed his sword. "Then let them come. The fire in us hasn't died."
As dawn broke the next day, the group rode out. Arien, Kael, Elandra, and Thorne. Each bore the weight of titles earned in war, and the scars of peace too fleeting.
The journey to the west was long and harsh. Villages once safe now stood abandoned, blackened with scorch marks and twisted roots where none should grow.
On the seventh night, they camped near the edge of the Vale.
And that's when it appeared.
A gate—massive, obsidian, humming with forgotten power—rose from the earth like a wound.
Etched across its arch were words in the old tongue:
"Only the flameborn may pass."
Kael stepped forward.
And the gate opened.