The Fireborn Clans had gathered.
In the heart of the scorched basin known as Emberdeep, banners danced in the ash-laced winds—scarlet suns, burning wolves, fractured crowns. Thousands of warriors stood assembled around the great Crater Arena, their skin marked with glowing ember runes, eyes reflecting the eternal fire of the Ashen Marches.
Word had spread like wildfire: the Vault had opened. The Crimson Heir had returned. And now… he called them to war.
Kael stood upon a basalt platform overlooking the horde. His companions flanked him—Lyra silent and watchful, Darric like a grounded mountain, and Isryn robed in ceremonial black. Kaelen stood a step behind Kael, his staff resting like a relic of the age before kings.
The Fireborn chieftains arrived first. Hulking figures clad in scorched armor and bone talismans, each one carved by fire and war. Their leader, Warchief Drakvar, approached Kael, his molten axe dragging embers behind him.
"You claim the mark of the Sovereign," Drakvar growled. "But power without allegiance is flame without purpose."
Kael stepped forward.
"I don't need your allegiance," he said, voice steady. "I need your blades."
Laughter rippled through the crowd—mocking, feral.
Kael unsheathed his sword slowly. The Crimson Edge howled in his grip, as if it sensed what was to come.
"I challenge you," he said, eyes locked on Drakvar. "Blood for command. Flame for obedience."
The arena erupted in roars.
Drakvar grinned. "Then burn, pup."
The duel began.
Drakvar struck like a wildfire, cleaving with wide, brutal arcs that split the arena floor. But Kael was faster. Sharper. More precise. Each motion was a blend of technique and instinct, his movements honed through battles against monsters and men alike.
He dodged a crushing overhead swing and slashed across Drakvar's ribs.
"Crimson Fang."
Drakvar stumbled, snarling. His axe flared with an inferno surge. He launched a flaming shockwave—Kael met it head-on.
"Infernal Rend!"
Their attacks collided in an explosion of fire and force that sent ash spiraling into the sky.
Kael emerged from the smoke, blade glowing red-hot, his aura crackling. With a roar, he leapt, bringing his sword down—
"Ashstorm Cleave!"
The blade struck true.
Drakvar fell, his weapon shattered, flame flickering from his mouth.
The arena fell silent.
Kael turned to face the clans. His voice rang out like thunder across the ashfields:
"You were warriors once. Now you fight each other in a dying world, ruled by echoes and lies. I offer you purpose. War against the Veil. A chance to burn away the rot and carve a new future."
He raised the Crimson Edge high.
"Will you follow me into fire?"
One by one, the chieftains knelt. The warriors howled.
A warcall echoed across the basin.
The Fireborn Clans had chosen their Sovereign.
And the world would feel the weight of their flame.