The plains beyond the Whispering Pines stretched wide and exposed, dotted only by scattered stone altars and broken ruins from wars long past. Emilia, Asher, and Liaen moved swiftly but cautiously, their pace steady as they neared Alsira. The capital loomed on the distant horizon, its outer towers faint against the pale morning sky.
But the wind carried something dark.
"Smell that?" Liaen asked, nostrils flaring. "Rot. Blood. Soul decay."
Asher drew his blade, the steel singing with an all-too-familiar readiness. "The Cult is ahead of us."
Elira drifted close, her light dimmer than ever, but her presence still a comfort. "They're gathering. Something big. Their soul traces are stitched into the wind itself."
Emilia closed her eyes, focusing inward. The threads of soul energy she had once barely understood now responded to her touch like strings of an instrument. And they pulsed with one truth:
A march was coming.
They spotted the vanguard first—scout-beasts with warped limbs and soulless eyes. F-class, maybe D at best. Asher cut through them like breath through fog, his movement precise and deadly. Emilia supported from behind, sending waves of stabilizing soullight through the ground, slowing the enemies and lighting Asher's path.
Then came the bruisers. Larger. Cloaked. Branded with the Cult's jagged red insignias.
One hurled a corrupted spear directly at Emilia's chest.
Elira screamed—and the weapon froze mid-air, held by a shield of translucent blue. Her light sparked violently from the effort, her form flaring and then dimming.
"You're not ready to lose me yet," she whispered, smiling weakly.
Emilia stood, soullight swirling at her fingertips. "I'm not losing anyone."
The ambush wasn't random. A figure stood atop a rise in the land, arms wide, robes billowing like smoke. His mask bore the sigil of the Cult of Shattered Names: a broken circle within a screaming mouth.
Liaen swore under his breath. "That's a Soul Herald. They don't send those unless they're preparing a siege."
The masked Herald raised his staff. "You, girl! Emilia Gray. Vessel of the Woven Flame. We welcome you."
Emilia stepped forward, fury tightening in her chest. "You killed my family."
"You carry the soulbrand of destiny. We didn't kill them—we freed you."
Elira hissed. "He's stalling."
Asher grabbed Emilia's arm. "We don't have the strength to face him yet. We move. Now."
Reluctantly, she turned. The moment broke—and the sky cracked with thunder as monsters poured from the hillside behind the Herald.
It wasn't a hunt.
It was a war march.
They fled through an abandoned trade road, hidden by twisted brush and half-buried stone markers. Liaen guided them using old maps and older memory, while Emilia shielded them with what soul power she could spare. Elira floated behind, dropping fading sparks of soullight to blur their trail.
By nightfall, they reached a cave tucked into the side of a long-forgotten quarry. Safe—for now.
Inside, the silence was sharp.
Emilia sat alone near the entrance, hands trembling.
Asher joined her, lowering himself beside her. "You did well."
She shook her head. "He knew my name. He wants me."
"He won't get you."
"He already has a piece of me. I felt it—like something inside me was... tethered."
Elira appeared, drifting low. "You carry part of the ancient spark, Emilia. The Woven Flame wasn't just a soul technique—it was a soul artifact, once. Lost during the first war. Somehow, it's inside you now."
Liaen leaned against the cave wall, arms crossed. "So the Cult's not just building an army. They're collecting weapons. Relics. Living ones."
Emilia looked between them, her voice barely audible. "What happens if they get me?"
Asher met her eyes. "They won't."
Outside, beneath the quiet stars, the March of Shadows moved south.
A sea of monsters, corrupted warriors, and masked soulbinders flowed across the land like a plague. And at their head, the Soul Herald raised his staff toward the heavens—
—and screamed a single name into the wind.
"Emilia!"