The valley still stank of blood. Ravens circled above the battlefield, their caws echoing like a funeral song. Kael stood among the bodies, Crimson Fang planted in the earth, his eyes locked on the western ridges. He could feel it—a tremor in the Mark, a distant pressure crawling along the edges of his soul.
The Sovereign's gaze was searching. Testing.
Arden spat on the ground, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. "That wasn't a fight. That was a warm-up." His grin faltered as he looked at Kael. "And I don't like what that means."
Selene brushed dust and blood from her hands, her radiant magic dimming as exhaustion showed in her face. "They sent that many soldiers just to test our strength. If the Sovereign truly marches, then…" She let the words die, but the silence was heavy.
Elira's bowstring hummed as she plucked it idly, her sharp eyes never leaving the treeline. "The commander you killed," she said, her voice calm but low, "he wasn't meant to win. He was meant to measure you." She met Kael's gaze. "And now they know."
Kaelen finally spoke. He had been silent through the battle, but when his voice came, it carried the weight of truth.
"The Sovereign will not send rabble again. What comes next will be forged from his own hand—warriors bound by oaths older than kingdoms." His gaze lingered on Kael. "And when they come, it will not only be to kill you. It will be to break you."
Kael pulled Crimson Fang from the ground, the crimson edge fading back to steel. He looked at each of them, his voice steady.
"Then we don't give them the chance. We move before the noose tightens."
Arden's brows furrowed. "Move where?"
Kaelen's eyes glimmered faintly, as though recalling something long-buried. "The Ashen Marches. There are places there untouched by time, where fire and stone guard secrets the Sovereign fears. If Kael is to rise against him, he must learn what waits in the ashes."
Selene hesitated. "The Ashen Marches… that land is cursed. Few return."
Kaelen almost smiled. "Which is precisely why we go. The Sovereign's gaze cannot pierce its deepest fires."
Kael nodded once, decisive. "Then the Marches it is."
They set camp that night on the ridge above the battlefield. The flames flickered low, their shadows stretching long across the ground. Despite their victory, unease clung to them—like wolves circling just beyond the firelight.
Arden tore into a roasted hare, grumbling through his food. "Marches, cursed lands, Sovereigns. At least there'll be something worth smashing on the way."
Selene sipped from her waterskin, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "You say that as though you don't feel it too. The air thickens with every step we take toward him."
Elira sat apart, stringing her bow with a quiet, practiced hand. Her gaze, however, was fixed on Kael. Not with fear, but with something unreadable.
Kael noticed but didn't speak. Instead, he turned his attention to Kaelen, who sat with his staff across his knees, eyes closed as though listening to whispers no one else could hear.
"You've known all along, haven't you?" Kael said at last. "That this path would lead me into the Sovereign's shadow."
Kaelen's eyes opened, and for a moment, they glowed faintly violet. "I knew from the moment I found you among the ashes of Rivenhart. The Mark is not a gift. It is a chain. The question has always been whether you would drag it—or let it drag you."
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. No one spoke after that.
Above them, the sky seemed heavier. And in the distance, across the black horizon, faint drums began to beat once more.