The air warped with heat.
Duncan stepped into the circle of scorched obsidian, surrounded by warriors of Ashwake Hold. The ground was glass in places—shattered, melted, reformed. The Flameborn formed a ring, silent, eyes glowing faintly in the molten half-light of the Emberreach sky.
Ashwarden Kaelen stood across from him, bare-chested, his spear braced in both hands. The heat rolling off the man was unnatural—not from the land but from within him. His tattoos flickered, alive with inner fire.
"You wear the Crown," Kaelen said. "But crowns are worn by the dead, too. Only flame will reveal what lives beneath."
Duncan slid Ashborn from its scabbard. The sword drank in the heat greedily, its edge catching sparks from the air. The iron crown remained at his hip, wrapped still in black cloth—but even so, it pulsed faintly with pressure. As if watching.
No fanfare. No horn.
Kaelen lunged.
The spear blurred. Duncan barely twisted aside, the weapon scraping against his pauldron in a hiss of searing contact. Kaelen didn't pause—he spun with blinding speed, bringing the butt of the weapon low toward Duncan's ribs.
Duncan dropped to a knee, bracing Ashborn's flat to block.
The impact cracked the ground.
Flames erupted from Kaelen's tattoos, arcing down the spear like lightning. Duncan gritted his teeth as the wave of heat forced him back. Sweat instantly soaked through his tunic. His gauntlets steamed.
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Still standing?"
Duncan said nothing. Instead, he charged.
He slammed into Kaelen like a battering ram, twisting his sword at the last moment for a diagonal cut. Kaelen deflected, but not cleanly—Ashborn carved a shallow groove along his flank.
The blood sizzled as it hit the ground.
The onlookers hissed softly in approval.
Kaelen's smile widened.
"Good."
He leapt back—and then unleashed.
Flames roared from his feet as he spun his spear overhead, creating a cyclone of fire that lashed out toward Duncan. The heat was unbearable, burning the very air. Duncan lowered his head, surged forward through it.
Ashborn pulsed.
The ember-forged blade didn't melt—it fed.
He swung, a wide arc meant not to kill, but to disarm.
Kaelen stepped inside the reach of the blade, jamming the butt of his spear against Duncan's collarbone and sending him sprawling to the glass.
Duncan hit hard. His shoulder screamed.
Kaelen stalked forward. "This is the Dominion's best?"
Duncan grinned through the pain. "No. I burned the Dominion."
He kicked up, using his momentum to slam his knee into Kaelen's gut.
The Ashwarden staggered.
Ashborn flashed—once, twice. The second strike clipped Kaelen's shoulder, and the heat flared wildly.
Kaelen fell to one knee, breathing hard.
A moment of silence.
Then he laughed.
"Enough."
He stood fully and tossed the spear aside. "You fight like a wild blade. But I see it. You're no pretender."
The warriors around them relaxed, many nodding in approval.
Duncan exhaled. He hadn't realized how much he'd been holding in.
Kaelen approached, blood drying quickly along his side. "The Flameborn honor strength. But more than that, we honor memory. You wear the Crown. You carry the flame of the Old Kings."
Duncan wiped soot from his face. "Then will you join us?"
Kaelen nodded. "Yes. But with conditions."
Duncan raised a brow.
Kaelen pointed to the east, where distant plumes of smoke rose into the blood-colored sky. "The Dominion is not blind. They've already moved against our forges. They've sent Iron Quellers—soldiers bred to suppress beastkind and fireborne blood. They come not to fight, but to erase."
Alra cursed under her breath. "The Quellers are real?"
Duncan looked grim. "What do you need?"
Kaelen's expression hardened. "Help us defend Emberdeep Forge. If it falls, we lose more than weapons—we lose our oldest fire. If you fight beside us and protect it, all Flameborn tribes will answer your call."
Duncan sheathed Ashborn. "Then we ride before the fire dies."
That night, the camp came alive with strange energy.
Bannerless and Flameborn mingled for the first time, trading stories, sharing strange fire-root liquor, and watching as embers danced like spirits above the black glass fields. The red-winged beasts of the Emberreach circled overhead, drawn by the presence of the Crown.
Duncan stood alone at the ridge, watching the smoke rise in the distance.
Kael approached silently.
"You think we can win?" Duncan asked.
Kael shrugged. "We've come this far without permission. That's how every war starts."
Duncan chuckled softly.
But deep down, he knew this was more than a battle.
This was a spark.
A second dominion was forming—one not built from chains and brands, but from oath, fire, and memory.
And it would burn through the old world before it was done.