The Ashen Marches greeted them with fire.
Sulfur winds howled across the obsidian ridges, scorching the cloaks of those who dared step foot into its cursed borders. The land cracked beneath Kael's boots, veins of molten rock pulsing like a wounded beast's heartbeat. Ash fell from a blood-red sky, veiling the sun and turning day into a smoldering twilight.
They had left the Hollow Spire with the veiled ones watching, never speaking, only nodding once before vanishing into flame.
Now, they walked the path toward prophecy—toward the Oracle of Ash, hidden deep within the flame-scarred mountains.
"Feels like walking across the ribs of a dying god," Darric muttered, wiping soot from his brow.
Isryn raised her hood against the wind. "That's not far from the truth. The Marches were once sacred… until fire consumed the divine."
Lyra said nothing, eyes narrowed ahead. She hadn't spoken much since Hollow Spire. Not since Kael's spark ignited fully.
And Kael himself?
He was quiet too—but not empty. The Crimson Mark no longer seared him; it pulsed in rhythm with the land around him, as if the fire here answered to it. To him.
They weren't alone in the Marches.
The Fireborn Clans watched from cliffs and ruins—warriors etched in glowing sigils, draped in ash-stitched armor. Some threw rocks. Others offered food. None dared attack.
Not until the second night.
A beast came.
Not a Veilspawn—but something older. A Cindereel, formed from stone, glass, and flame. It burst from beneath the earth while Kael and his companions slept in a scorched ravine.
It roared, spewing molten breath.
Kael was on his feet instantly. Sword drawn. His Mark flared.
"Form a ring!" he barked.
Darric took front. Lyra climbed a rock and nocked flame arrows. Isryn muttered curses that made the air tremble.
But Kael stepped forward alone.
"Don't," Lyra hissed.
Kael didn't answer.
The beast lunged.
Kael surged.
"Infernal Fang!"
He met it mid-air, his blade alight with blazing crimson. The slash carved straight through its molten neck, severing it in a rain of embers.
The others stood stunned.
Kael turned, eyes glowing red beneath the ashfall.
"Let's keep moving."
By the fourth day, the mountains opened, revealing ancient ruins encased in obsidian glass. Lava ran like rivers through aqueducts long forgotten.
And waiting there, atop a black spire that looked carved from dragonbone—stood the Oracle of Ash.
She was blindfolded, wrapped in ember-silk robes, hair a living blaze that rose like a torch to the heavens. Her voice carried like a funeral dirge over a war drum.
"Crimson Mark," she spoke. "Breaker of Veils. You carry fire meant for gods."
Kael stepped forward. "You know what I am."
She did not smile. "I know what you are becoming."
Around him, the Marches grew quiet. Even the wind listened.
"You have tasted power," the Oracle continued. "Now choose—will you master flame, or will it consume all you love?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for this."
"None who carry crowns ever do."
She raised a hand.
From the lava rose three shapes—Fireborn Warlords, bound in ash and oath, once kings, now guardians.
"You must burn through the past to find your future. Prove yourself. Or perish."
Kael drew his blade.
The Crimson Spark ignited again—hotter than before.
And behind him, his companions readied their weapons, not as followers…
…but as believers.