The city of Blackspire was unlike anything Kael had seen.
Carved into the jagged cliffs of the Ebonreach Mountains, it loomed above the valley like a blade frozen in time. Black stone towers pierced the sky like crooked spears, and bridges of bone-white marble arched between them as though spun by spiders who understood both architecture and fear.
The sky here was always overcast, not from weather—but from the remnants of old spells still coiling in the clouds.
Kael, Iris, and Ash entered through the eastern gate under false names, cloaked in silence and shadows. They had reason to hide. The Inquisitors were here—men dressed in crimson leather and veiled helms, wielding flame-marked swords and the authority to unmake anyone.
They called themselves Seekers of Purity.
Their prey? Anyone touched by magic. Anyone touched by the old blood.
Anyone like Kael.
A City That Watches
Blackspire did not sleep. Even as the moon rose, the streets pulsed with whispers, deals, and smoke. Kael's presence stirred something beneath the surface. Wherever he walked, the mark on his chest pulsed like a heartbeat beneath his shirt.
They reached a hidden enclave beneath the collapsed west wing of the ruins—a place Iris had once called home. There, a small group of cloaked rebels awaited them.
They were not warriors.
They were scholars. Oracles. Exiles. The broken and the damned. All of them had touched the Forbidden Texts.
At the center stood an old man with no hands and empty sockets where eyes should be. He smiled when Kael entered.
"He comes," the blind oracle rasped. "The flame-walker. The one left behind."
Kael frowned. "You knew I was coming?"
"We dreamed you. Every night. For a hundred years."
The Pact Beneath the Spire
A council was called in the hollow dome beneath the city.
Iris stood beside Kael as the rebels formed a circle around them. In the center, they lit the Urnborn Flame—an ancient, violet fire that burned without smoke, said to echo only when truth was spoken.
"We can't fight the Inquisitors," one rebel whispered. "They hold the Black Tome. The laws of unmaking."
"We don't need to fight them directly," Iris replied. "We just need to open the gate before they find it."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "You're really going to tell everyone about that now?"
Kael's hand found the hilt of his sword, unsure. "What gate?"
The blind oracle stepped forward. His voice dropped to a tremble.
"The Silent Accord. A pact sealed between the oldest gods and the cursed bloodline of the Abandoned."
He pointed at Kael.
"Your flame is a key. But the gate is not just a door. It is… a prison."
A chill passed through the room.
Kael's pulse quickened. "What's behind it?"
"Not what," the oracle whispered. "Who."
Dreams of the Drowned King
That night, Kael dreamed of water.
An ocean of black ink. A throne beneath the waves. A crown made of bone.
And a voice.
"You come closer, child of ash. Do you seek power, or truth?"
Kael tried to speak but his mouth filled with water. The voice laughed.
"You will set me free. Will you curse the world for what it did to you?"
The crown began to rise from the depths.
"Or will you become the flame that consumes fate?"
A Blade in the Dark
Kael awoke with blood in his mouth and smoke in the air.
The hideout was under attack.
Inquisitors had found them.
Screams echoed through the stone halls as fire lit the walls and steel rang like thunder. Ash grabbed his axe. Iris began casting wards.
Kael didn't hesitate.
He ran toward the breach—toward the red-cloaked invaders.
And in that moment, as his sword clashed with the first Inquisitor, the mark on his chest ignited—not with fire, but with a pulsing white light that turned steel to ash and made shadows recoil.
His enemies faltered.
His allies stared in awe.
"The Accord is real," the oracle gasped before a blade silenced him.
Kael stood in the flames, panting, marked by light and blood.
The gate was waking.