The storm had not ended with the Oracle's words—it had only begun.
By the time Kael and his companions left the Hollow Pit, the Sovereign Court was already breaking apart. Factions whispered, messengers fled in the night, and banners were torn down in silence. What should have been law and order had become the kindling of war.
The Ashen Marches burned with rumor.
Kael rode at the front of his company, the crimson cloak at his back snapping against the cold wind. The Mark throbbed faintly beneath his armor, still pulsing with the echo of the Hollow Pit's battle. He had felt the Oracle's prophecy settle into him like chains, but where others saw binding, Kael felt only warning.
He would not be chained.
Behind him, the companions were restless.
Darric, his knuckles white on the reins of his warhorse, finally broke the silence.
"They'll call you monster now. Half the court already wanted your head—now they'll come with swords instead of whispers."
"They already came with swords," Kael said, voice even. "They just didn't hold them in their hands."
Lyra rode closer, her hood drawn up against the ash-wind. Her eyes held something sharper than fear—doubt.
"And what will you do, Kael? When their armies rise? When every sovereign claimant sends assassins for your blood?"
Kael's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "I'll do what I've always done. Cut down what stands in my path."
Isryn scoffed softly, though her smile carried no mirth. "So simple. So bloody. Do you not see? They'll twist prophecy itself against you. You won't just fight soldiers, Kael—you'll fight belief."
At that, Kaelen's voice stirred from the rear. He had ridden silent until now, his gray robes whispering like shadows.
"And belief is sharper than steel. More binding than any chain. If you cannot learn to master it, it will master you."
Kael finally looked back. Their eyes met. Kaelen's were not accusing, nor fearful, but weighed with something heavier: expectation.
The company rode on, silence stretching once more, each companion drowning in their own thoughts.
But when they crested the ridge, silence was replaced by fire.
Below, the valley of Cindermoor Keep roared with battle. Armies clashed beneath storm-dark skies, sovereign banners torn and burning. Blackened trebuchets hurled stone into crumbling walls, while knights fought in the mud with steel dulled by blood.
The succession war had already begun.
Kael drew his blade. Its crimson glow flared to life, eager, hungry. His companions' eyes turned to him—not with doubt, but with the grim certainty that wherever he led, they would follow.
Kael raised his sword high, and the sky itself seemed to tremble with the answering thunder.
"Then let them call me flame," he said, his voice carrying across the ridge. "If the world will burn, I'll be the one to choose what turns to ash."
The companions spurred their mounts.
And as they charged down into the valley, into the chaos of Cindermoor's fall.