The night was thick with smoke and the distant crackle of fires. From atop the shattered battlements of Elderholt, Kael, Lyra, and Darric watched the horizon where the flickering glow of countless torches marked the march of the Red Legion — Malrik's most feared vanguard.
Kael's jaw clenched. The Bannerless defeat was only the beginning.
"Malrik's army grows faster than we anticipated," Darric said, eyes narrowing. "The Black Host isn't just rebuilding—it's reshaping itself."
Lyra's gaze was cold steel. "And they're hunting something. Or someone."
Kael's hand brushed the Crimson Mark on his chest, its faint pulse syncing with his heartbeat. He could feel it stirring beneath his skin, growing stronger with each threat, each battle.
"We'll meet them at Cindermoor," Kael said. "We can't let the Red Legion reach the heartlands."
The journey to Cindermoor was a tense march through twisted forests and broken roads. Along the way, Kael's group grew. Isryn joined them at a crossroad, her eyes sharp as the twin daggers at her belt. She moved silently, a shadow among shadows, and her knowledge of the Veilspawn's dark cults added another edge to their war.
At camp one evening, Kael sat beside the dying embers of a fire. Lyra was sharpening her arrows, and Darric was repairing his shield.
"Do you ever think about your sister?" Lyra asked quietly, breaking the night's silence.
Kael looked up, eyes haunted. "Sometimes. I don't know if she's alive or lost to the Veil."
"She's out there," Darric said firmly. "We'll find her."
Kael nodded, drawing strength from their words.
The Battle of Cindermoor was brutal.
The Red Legion surged forward, a tide of black and red, banners blazing under a storm-dark sky. Kael's voice rang out as he led the charge, Ashrend and Duskrend burning bright.
"Crimson Spark!"
A bolt of searing red energy blasted from Kael's sword, cutting through lines of enemy soldiers like wildfire.
Isryn's daggers found veins and weak points, Lyra's arrows sang death from the skies, and Darric stood like a fortress, shielding their advance.
The battle raged, each named attack Kael unleashed carving a path through the enemy—Blazing Fang, Emberwave Slash, Veilbreaker's Edge—each strike more precise, more deadly.
But victory came at a cost.
As the last of the Red Legion fell, a shadow slipped through the chaos—a veiled figure, a general cloaked in darkness, wielding a sword of twisted void energy.
He smiled beneath his hood.
"Kael Rivenhart," he said, voice like a blade. "So you are the one spoken of in old prophecy."
Kael raised Ashrend, ready to strike.
The clash would decide more than the fate of the battle—it would decide the fate of the realms themselves.