The caravan moved in silence.
Dozens strong now, the Bannerless weren't merely soldiers anymore. They were witnesses—each man and woman changed by what they had seen in Alderdeep, what they had survived in the Ebonrise Woods. Many no longer wore helms. Some braided beast bones into their armor. Others bore painted symbols on their faces, spirals or glyphs learned from Alra and her kin.
This was no longer the Dominion's army.
This was the beginning of something ancient returning.
Duncan rode at the front, Ashborn strapped across his back, the iron crown beneath a black cloth at his side. He didn't wear it—not always. Its power still pulsed too loudly, whispering echoes of the Old Kings into his dreams. But he kept it close.
He could feel when the land responded to it.
Every step eastward brought changes. Roots curled unnaturally beneath their feet. Trees grew with bone-colored bark. Feral beasts watched from the shadows—unnaturally silent, unafraid.
Alra rode beside him, her crimson-antlered elk snorting warily with each turn in the forest road.
"We're close," she said.
Duncan raised a brow. "To what?"
"To a gate."
Kael, riding behind them, leaned forward. "What kind of gate?"
Alra gave a rare smile.
"Not one you'll find on any Dominion map."
It wasn't a structure.
It was a wound.
Where the Ebonrise forest ended and the Bramble Hollow began, the trees opened into a clearing where the air shimmered unnaturally. At its center rose a stone arch—broken, half-swallowed by moss. But the space between its pillars wasn't empty.
It shimmered like water, but hummed like flame.
Duncan felt it before he saw it. His spine buzzed. The crown pulsed at his hip.
Alra dismounted and approached the arch. She knelt before it, drawing a blade and slicing a thin line across her palm.
Her blood hit the earth.
The portal opened.
Wind screamed through the clearing, not loud but ancient. The surface of the gate boiled with color—images flickering across it. A sky of red lightning. A city made of stone roots. A lake where stars floated.
"This is a Wakened Passage," Alra said. "A bridge to the Emberreach. The Flameborn keep their vigil beyond this gate. We must convince them to join us."
Kael glanced at Duncan. "And if they don't?"
Duncan stepped forward. "Then I'll remind them what the Crown remembers."
Crossing the gate felt like drowning in sunlight.
Duncan stumbled as he emerged on the other side, blinking against the red-orange glow. The world here was scorched and vivid—mountains of black rock jutted into the blood-colored sky. Rivers of molten glass trickled between cracked plains. And high above, winged beasts circled like vultures.
The Emberreach was alive.
Alra stepped through next, unshaken.
Behind them, the rest of the company trickled through the shimmering gate—Kael, the Bannerless, and two scouts from Alra's vanguard.
The land crackled underfoot.
"Stay alert," Alra warned. "The Flameborn are proud. And the last time they saw a Dominion soldier…" She didn't finish the sentence.
Duncan nodded grimly.
They followed an ancient trail—half-carved, half-melted. At intervals, statues jutted from the ground. Tall, lean figures with torches for eyes and fire-wreathed hands. Most were broken.
After hours of marching, they reached a ridge.
And beyond it—at the heart of a basin filled with fireglass and black sand—stood a fortress of obsidian, shaped like a flame frozen mid-dance. Towers spiraled up into the smoke-stained clouds. Banners hung from its balconies—black cloth embroidered with a phoenix sigil glowing faintly red.
This was Ashwake Hold, stronghold of the Flameborn.
Kael exhaled. "So… we're walking into a volcano?"
Duncan chuckled. "Feels about right for us."
As they approached, horns sounded—not mechanical or metallic, but deep, organic notes that shook the air. The fortress gates opened.
Out stepped a line of warriors—tall, bare-chested, armor lined with flame-kissed plates. At their front was a man with glowing red tattoos over his neck and arms. His eyes glowed faintly gold. He carried no sword. Just a long-bladed spear crackling with heat.
Alra stepped forward. "Ashwarden Kaelen. We come under the Oath."
The man—Kaelen—glared at her. "That oath was broken. And the last Crown-bearer burned half the Emberreach trying to hold the pact."
Duncan stepped beside her. "Then I'll do better."
Kaelen turned his gaze to him. The silence stretched dangerously.
"You wear the Crown," he finally said.
"I do."
"Then you should know… only fire can temper iron."
Kaelen spun the spear once, then pointed it at Duncan.
"Duel me. Right now. Prove you are not a pretender. Or I burn your bones into the glass you walk on."
The Bannerless stiffened.
Kael drew his spear. "Commander—"
Duncan held up a hand. He stepped forward and unstrapped Ashborn.
"If blood earns your trust," he said calmly, "then let it burn."