The Ashen Highlands earned their name from the ever-present gray veil that drifted across the land like a death shroud. Trees stood gnarled and blackened, their branches twisted like the hands of corpses reaching toward an uncaring sky. The soil itself was dark and dry, untouched by sunlight or rain. Fires had passed through here once—great wild infernos that consumed beasts, men, and gods alike.
Now only cinder and whispers remained.
Duncan's company moved in silence, cloaks drawn tight against the wind. Behind them, Blackridge had fallen into stillness once more. Its people remained trapped in their hollow dream-state, and the monolith's remains had turned to brittle crystal dust. They had left warning markers for any who came after, though Duncan doubted many would follow.
Those who still had sense stayed far from where the wildlands touched the dead sky.
Scouts and Signs
Kael returned at dawn with three wildborn scouts. Her armor was streaked with ash, and one of the scouts bled from a deep wound across his shoulder.
"They're tracking us," she said without preamble.
Duncan looked up from the smoldering campfire. "Beasts?"
Kael shook her head. "Worse. Something wearing human faces. Moving too fast. Too quiet."
"More Hollowed?"
Brannoc snorted from where he sat sharpening his axe. "No. Hollowed move in packs. These are hunters. Same kind of filth we saw near Dunemar. But smarter now. Watching."
Duncan stood. His blade, even sheathed, buzzed faintly against his side. The silver flame within it pulsed in time with the medallion at his chest.
"We keep moving. No fires tonight. They want to drag us into fear. We give them steel instead."
The Black Pillars
By the third day, they reached the edge of the Black Pillars—ancient standing stones jutting from the mountainside, worn smooth by wind and time. Locals believed them to be remnants of a buried fortress, a citadel swallowed by earth during the Fall of the Flameborne Kings. Most avoided the place.
Duncan did not.
"It's beneath here," he said, touching one of the stones. "The last flame. The voice spoke of it."
Kael frowned. "How do you know?"
"I don't. But the medallion burns hotter the closer we get."
Brannoc walked a wide circle around the stones. "There's something underneath. Hollow echo when I stomp here."
Duncan nodded. "Then we dig."
Below the Stone
By dusk, they had uncovered an old iron seal buried beneath layers of volcanic ash. Runes encircled it—glyphs of binding, power, and warning. None among them could read the language, but the meaning was clear:
Whatever was locked down here was not meant to rise again.
Duncan placed his hand on the seal.
The medallion flared with light.
A thunderous crack echoed through the ground, and the seal split, revealing a spiral stair descending into darkness.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "This is madness."
Brannoc grinned. "Good. Been a while since I killed something that came crawling out of an ancient tomb."
They descended.
The Ember Vault
The tunnel led into a vast subterranean chamber lined with black stone and filled with the scent of scorched air. At its center burned a single brazier—an eternal silver flame, untouched by time or rot. Around it, relics were mounted to the walls: ancient blades, tattered banners, and bones far too large to be human.
Duncan stepped forward. The flame responded, rising slightly in brightness.
"The last Ember of the Sovereign Flame," he murmured.
Kael whispered, "What is it?"
"Not what," came a voice from the shadows. "Who."
A figure emerged from behind the flame.
The Flamekeeper
She was tall, cloaked in silver-threaded robes, her face hidden behind a carved wooden mask. Her voice was neither old nor young, but layered—like several voices speaking at once.
"I am Solayne, Keeper of the Ember. Flame-watcher. Last Sentinel."
Brannoc raised his axe. "That so? Got any others down here we need to meet?"
She ignored him. Her gaze—unseen, but palpable—focused on Duncan.
"You carry the waking spark. It should not exist."
"I didn't ask for it," Duncan said.
"And yet it chose you."
Solayne circled the flame. "A storm comes. One older than empires. The Unformed stir not because they were summoned, but because the Flame stirs. As it always has."
Duncan stepped forward. "What do I need to do?"
She paused.
Then reached into the fire and drew out a blade.
It was short—almost a dagger—but the silver flame danced along its edge like a living thing.
"You must carry the Ember. Awaken the other Flames. Gather those still loyal to the Sovereign Fire."
Kael raised a brow. "And where are these 'others'?"
"Scattered. Buried. Sleeping. Like you were."
Solayne handed the blade to Duncan. The fire didn't burn him. It curled around his fingers like it knew him.
"You walk the path of Kingslayer and Kindler both," she said.
Above, a Trap
When they emerged from the tomb, night had fallen. But something was wrong.
No wind. No stars. No sound.
Brannoc drew his axe slowly. "They're here."
Figures emerged from the shadows—cloaked in ragged armor, faces blank with that terrible stillness. But they didn't charge.
One stepped forward.
A man, tall, bald, with branded glyphs burned into his arms.
"I bring word from the Hollow Flame," he said. "Surrender the Ember. Or burn with it."
Duncan stepped forward, blade in hand.
"No."