They left the Hollow Spire behind them, its black silhouette now cracked open like a wound on the world. The ash winds had grown stronger, sweeping across the hills and valleys of southern Velaryn with unnatural ferocity. In the distance, the Ash Road shimmered like molten silver beneath the crimson sky—a cursed path, once a pilgrim's trail, now a graveyard of bones and forgotten banners.
Kael walked at the front, his cloak torn by battle, Ashrend—now reforged—resting across his back. The new blade had no name yet, but it pulsed with a strange presence, as though aware. Since claiming it, Kael had barely spoken.
Lyra rode beside him, her eyes watching his every movement. She still remembered the way the red aura had flared around him in the Spire, how his eyes had lit with something ancient. Not just power. Memory.
Darric and Isryn followed behind, scanning the landscape.
"Kael," Darric said at last, "what exactly did you see in there?"
Kael didn't answer at first. Then he spoke quietly. "The past. And the cost of it."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "We're being followed."
The others drew their weapons immediately.
From the ash-covered rocks, a wave of twisted beasts emerged—smaller than the Veilspawn in the Spire, but more numerous. Their skin was cracked, their eyes glowing yellow with hunger. They carried rusted cleavers and blades of bone.
"Scorchclaws," Isryn cursed. "They shouldn't be this far west."
"They smell what Kael's carrying," Lyra muttered.
The pack of Scorchclaws howled and charged.
Kael drew his reforged blade and stepped forward. He didn't shout. He didn't speak.
He moved.
"Crimson Execution: Ember Fang!"
The blade burned with crimson lightning as he swept it in a wide arc, cleaving through five creatures in a single strike. Their bodies didn't fall—they ignited, crumbling into glowing ash.
Darric laughed grimly and slammed into another with his gauntlets. "Guess the blade likes killing."
Isryn weaved glowing sigils, sending pulses of light through the horde, while Lyra danced through the battlefield, loosing arrows that whistled with enchanted flame.
One of the Scorchclaws leapt toward Kael from behind.
Without turning, Kael spoke:
"Flame Reap."
The blade pulsed and shot backward in a trail of red flame, decapitating the beast mid-air.
The battle lasted only minutes—but it left the ground scorched and the wind screaming.
Kael stood alone among the corpses.
He looked down at his blade. It hadn't cooled. It hummed in his hand like it hungered.
Darric approached slowly. "You're getting faster."
"I'm not sure it's just me," Kael said. "This blade… it's remembering its own battles."
Lyra glanced at the horizon. "Then we better give it more."
Later, they made camp at the edge of the Ash Road, near a crumbled ruin once called Valorwatch. The night was still, save for the faint cracking of embers in their small fire.
Kael sat alone, sharpening the blade.
Isryn approached him and sat down. "You didn't just see visions, did you?"
He paused. "I heard a name. Mine… but not mine."
"Was it the Sovereign's voice?"
Kael shook his head. "Older."
He looked up at the stars, veiled in red mist. "Something is rising. The Hollow Spire was only the key."
Isryn leaned in, her voice soft. "Then what's the lock?"
Kael answered without blinking.
"Me."
At dawn, a red star rose behind them.
Ahead, the Ash Road forked—one path led to the ruins of Cindermoor, the other to the Silent Peaks.
And the Veilspawn had begun to march.