The Ashen Temple loomed like a fortress carved into the bones of a dead mountain. Black stone walls rose high above the Marches, streaked with rivers of molten fire flowing like veins through the earth. Smoke curled from fissures in the rock, carrying the scent of sulfur and charred iron.
The battlefield had fallen silent behind them. The clans had ceased their assault the moment the Oracle's flames ignited in the distance. They were no longer enemies, no longer warriors. They were pilgrims, humbled by something greater.
Kael tightened his grip on Ashrend as he and his companions ascended the steps. His crimson aura still lingered faintly, its sparks humming along the edges of his blade. Every step closer to the temple felt heavier, as though the air itself resisted his presence.
Beside him, Lyra's bow hung loosely in her hands, her eyes scanning the temple gates with guarded wariness. Darric's shield rested on his back, his jaw set like stone, but Kael could see the tension in his shoulders. Even Isryn, who rarely betrayed emotion, whispered soft prayers under her breath in a tongue older than fire.
The gates opened without touch, as if the temple itself recognized them.
Inside, the air was hotter than any forge. Pillars of basalt stretched high into the gloom, their surfaces crawling with glowing script in an ancient language. Fire pooled in basins, and at the heart of it all sat the Ashen Oracle.
She was neither young nor old. Her skin bore the cracks of scorched earth, her eyes burned like embers, and her voice carried the weight of a thousand years when she spoke.
"Crimson-marked," she said, her gaze piercing through Kael. "You have come as the flames foretold."
The weight of her stare was suffocating, but Kael forced himself to meet it.
"I came because your land bled," he said evenly. "If fate brought me here, then let it answer for itself."
A faint smile ghosted across her lips. "Then face the fire."
The ground shook. The flames in the basins roared higher, spilling into a circle that closed around Kael. His companions were forced back, a wall of heat separating them from him.
Darric slammed his fists against the barrier. "Kael!"
But Kael only nodded once to them before stepping forward. The fire swallowed him whole.
He stood in a void of burning light. Ashrend weighed in his hands, heavier than before. The flames coiled into shapes—mockeries of men, of beasts, of Sovereigns long dead. Each one lunged at him in turn.
Kael moved.
His blade carved arcs of red lightning through the phantoms, each swing scattering them like ash. But they kept reforming, striking faster, harder. His aura flared brighter, answering instinctively.
Crimson Spark.
Lightning-fused fire erupted around him, searing the illusions into nothing. Yet the more he burned them away, the heavier his body became, until his knees nearly buckled.
"You wield flame without restraint," a voice whispered through the fire. "Do you control it, or does it control you?"
Kael roared, slamming Ashrend into the ground. Crimson energy flared outward in a storm, incinerating everything in sight.
Silence followed.
Then the fire parted.
He stood in a throne room of black stone. Dead Sovereigns sat upon shattered thrones, their crowns twisted into grotesque shapes. In the center was a single seat, towering above all others, bathed in crimson light.
Upon it sat… himself.
Kael stared at the figure—his own reflection, older, sharper, eyes glowing like suns. The Sovereign-Kael raised Ashrend, its edge dripping fire that bled into the air.
"You will burn the world to ash," the reflection said, voice cold and absolute. "And they will kneel or perish."
Kael's grip on his blade tightened. "No."
The reflection smiled. "You already have."
The vision shattered in fire and screams.
Kael fell to his knees as the flames receded. He was back in the temple, gasping for air. The Oracle's voice thundered above him.
"The Crimson Spark awakens… the brand long buried burns anew. You will bring ruin, Rivenhart's heir, whether you wish it or not. You will stand as Sovereign—by choice, or by curse."
Her gaze flicked to his companions beyond the flame. "And they will suffer for it."
Kael forced himself to rise, his crimson aura still crackling faintly, his body trembling from the trial. "Then I'll break your prophecy," he said hoarsely. "I am no one's curse."
The Oracle's expression was unreadable. "We shall see."
The flames lowered, the barrier fading, and his companions rushed to his side. Lyra caught his arm, her eyes wide with worry. Darric clapped his shoulder, steadying him. Isryn's stare lingered on the Oracle, suspicion burning in her shadowed gaze.
The Oracle raised a hand. The floor beneath her throne cracked open, revealing a stair descending into darkness. From below, a whisper rose, cold and sharp, curling like smoke into Kael's ears.
It spoke his name. Not the one he bore now—
but his true name, one no mortal should know.
Kael staggered as the sound crawled into his bones, recognition blooming like fire. His companions shivered, each hearing only silence, but knowing something terrible had been spoken.
The Oracle's final words echoed through the hall:
"The Vault is open. And your name has been called."