The wind over the Ashen Marches screamed like a living thing. A storm of ember-dust veiled the sky in rust and shadow. Every step forward was a defiance of nature itself.
Kael stood at the head of his companions, the Ember Keystone secured beneath his cloak. The Oracle's vision still haunted him—its meanings unclear, its warnings impossible to ignore.
But there was no time to hesitate.
They were headed toward the Infernal Pass—the only route through the scorched rift leading to the Fireborn Clans. And guarding that pass… were the Black Host's Ashmongers, elite flame-wardens sworn to Malrik.
And they were waiting.
The cliffs narrowed into a jagged corridor of volcanic stone. The sulfur-laced air made it hard to breathe. Then came the sound—drums, slow and echoing. From the smoke, they emerged.
Ashmongers. Armored in soot-black steel, wielding halberds crowned with flame. Their helmets bore no eye slits—only snarling fangs carved into molten masks.
"Let me take the front," Darric growled, slamming his shield into the ground with force. "It's been too long since I broke a few bones."
Kael unsheathed his blade. The crimson veins along the metal pulsed in response to his will.
"Ashfang—Cleave the path."
With a surge of aura, Kael dashed forward. His sword howled through the air in a wide arc, leaving a streak of burning red. One Ashmonger fell, then another—cut in half by the force of his slash.
Lyra moved with him, twin daggers dancing like sparks. She slipped beneath a spear, twisted behind her foe, and drove both blades into the back of its neck. A hiss of steam, then silence.
Isryn conjured shards of silver flame, directing them in precise lines. They pierced gaps in the enemy's armor with surgical cruelty.
The Ashmongers fought without fear. One slammed its halberd toward Kael—he caught it with the flat of his blade and drove his knee into its chest, sending the armored body flying back ten paces.
"Form up!" Kael shouted. "Push through!"
Darric bashed aside another, then slammed his shield into the ground, summoning a ward of glowing stone. "GO!"
Kael's aura flared.
"Crimson Spiral — Sever the flame."
He launched himself into a spinning slash, his blade carving a vortex of raw power through the Ashmongers' front line. Smoke and molten steel scattered across the pass.
The way opened.
The field was silent, littered with fallen Ashmongers.
Kael exhaled slowly, flicking blood from his blade.
"Not just guards," Isryn muttered, kneeling by one of the bodies. "These were bound by blood-oaths. Malrik's personal enforcers."
Lyra eyed the rising smoke. "He knows we're coming."
Darric wiped his brow, smirking. "Good. Let him prepare."
Kael didn't speak right away. The visions from the Oracle still echoed, but this fight had brought something else into focus:
He was stronger now.
But the fire inside him was changing—hungrier.
It wasn't just power anymore. It was will. And it was watching him.
He looked to the horizon. The Fireborn Clans were near. So was the Oracle's second prophecy.
So was his next trial.