The night air was heavy with the scent of steel and blood. Beneath the crimson moon, the fortress walls shook as horns blared in warning.
From the east, a tide of shadows surged forward—cloaked figures bearing the rune of the Forgotten Flame upon their armor. Their steps moved in uncanny rhythm, like dancers in a ritual of slaughter.
Rondan stood at the vanguard, sword in hand. His crimson eyes glowed, fire stirring in his veins. Behind him, Leina, Ashir, and the soldiers of the fortress tightened their ranks.
"Form the line!" Ashir roared, his halberd flashing under the moonlight. "Do not break!"
The enemy advanced. No banners, no war cry—only silence, and then the crash of steel as they clashed.
Rondan's blade carved arcs of light, each movement precise, flowing like a dance. Step, spin, strike—his martial dance was no longer just technique; it was power unbound. The second seal within him had cracked, and with it came a storm of energy that set his every motion ablaze.
Leina fought at his side, daggers weaving silver trails that cut through the night.
"They're not here to win," she shouted between strikes. "They're here to measure you!"
Rondan's jaw clenched. Sparks flew as his sword locked with a commander's crimson-etched halberd. The rune burned along the enemy's arm, the same cursed mark as before.
"They'll find more than they came for," Rondan growled. With a burst of strength, he twisted, disarmed the man, and sent him sprawling into the dirt.
But for every enemy that fell, two more stepped forward. Their movements were too uniform, too rehearsed. It was a ritual—every clash feeding the mark that glowed faintly in the distance, drawn across the battlefield like an unseen circle.
Then it began to burn.
A ring of crimson fire erupted around the fortress, its flames rising like a cage. Soldiers recoiled, some stumbling in fear.
Rondan's heart thundered. He could feel it—the Forgotten Flame stirring beneath the earth, hungry, waiting.
"No!" He slammed his sword into the ground, channeling his will through his martial dance. His steps traced a counter-pattern, carving glowing arcs of light into the soil. Where the enemy's flame sought to imprison, his own movements began to unravel the circle.
The ground trembled. For a heartbeat, the ritual faltered.
A masked figure at the edge of the battlefield raised their hand, signaling retreat. The shadows pulled back in perfect order, melting into the night. The crimson fire hissed, then vanished, leaving only ash and silence behind.
The soldiers cheered, some collapsing in exhaustion. But Rondan did not lower his sword. His breath was ragged, his crimson eyes fixed on the horizon.
Leina touched his arm. "They tested you… and now they know."
Rondan tightened his grip, the fire within him roaring against the chains of fate.
"Then let them come again. Next time, I won't let them leave."
Above, the moon sank lower, its pale light swallowed by clouds. And in the shadows, the Forgotten Flame burned brighter than ever.