Kaelen guided his destrier through Dragon's Teeth's frozen gate as dawn bled pale gold over shattered ramparts, the Champion's sash heavy on his chest. Frost crackled beneath each hoofbeat; wardens flanked the convoy in serried ranks of twenty shields each, their visors catching the new light. Jonah and Liora rode at Kaelen's flanks—Jonah's gauntlet humming with silent wards, Liora's lantern pulsing emerald to brace them against the cold. Four violet-robed Aether-sages trailed the wagons' wake, breath misting in the icy air.
"Three leagues per hour," Kaelen reminded the wagon master, voice low as frostbitten wind.
The old man nodded, reins clinking. "Aye, my lord. We'll clear twenty leagues by midday, then rest before the Spire."
Liora dipped her head, runes flaring on her gauntlet. "Remember the ley-line knots at each lantern base—your core reactivates them without bleeding your own Aether."
Jonah glanced back at a dormant lamp. "Show us."
Kaelen slid his gauntlet over the carved runes. Gold flame flickered to life, melting frost with a hiss. In the courtyard's shadows a ragged urchin crossed himself. "Blessed be Ironclaw's heart."
He inclined his head. "May these wards keep you warm." Silence followed as villagers watched hope rekindled.
By mid-morning the convoy had cut through Dragon's Teeth's outskirts, leaving leaning hovels and half-collapsed forges behind. Kaelen studied the frozen rooftops, remembering the hungry cries of children beneath soot-streaked walls. This ember he carried would light more than lanterns—it would revive dreams.
They reached the River Bryn at high sun. Its surface gleamed like steel, veined with violet cracks. Captain Merial dismounted, breath steaming.
"One wagon at a time," she ordered. "Shields on both flanks. Pole-runes down to test the ice."
Forty wardens locked shields in a human barricade on sled-planks. Rune-tipped poles tapped tap… tap… confirming load-bearing wards beneath the surface.
Jonah knelt at a fissure, palm pressed to the ice. "Solid here. Keep the pace slow—no more than fifteen wheels per minute."
The first cart groaned across; ice quivered, then held. A warden muttered, "By the old gods, close." Another cracked, "Close enough. Move on."
At midday they halted beside Abhira's Cauldron, a yawning fissure hissing steam into the sky. Aether-sages unfurled crystal spheres on tripods, their glyphs mapping tremor sigils in violet light. Two Masters of Runes sketched wards on the crater's rim; a Seer whispered incantations, her eyes closed to see beyond sight; two Ritual Adepts traced warded circles in the snow.
"The epicenter," the Seer intoned, voice echoing in snow-laden trees, "lies beneath that vent. No secondary pulses detected."
Jonah wrapped his gauntlet in a cloth. "Wind here weakens wards—refresh at every hour." He tapped his gauntlet-runestone; green light rippled.
Liora pressed a healing rune to Kaelen's side. Warmth bloomed, knitting bruised muscle from a long-healed injury. "Half-point restored."
Kaelen smiled wryly. "Thank you. I'll need it." His ribs still smarted from Garric's bolt.
They threaded into a pine forest bowed under snow's burden. Fallen Aether lanterns lay dormant among the pines—monuments to a lost survey. Kaelen touched each lantern base; gold flames snapped to life, guiding the convoy deeper.
A warden named Beckford nudged Kaelen's stirrup. "Lord Ironclaw, those ruins ahead—are they safe?"
Kaelen dismounted. "Old watchtowers. Temple of the Moon's Claw. They once forged lunar blades said to cut through shadow."
Beckford whistled. "Could use one of those." He slapped his breastplate. "These iron shields feel no moonlight."
Liora laughed softly. "Focus on shadows in this forest, not on storms of legend."
Two leagues later they crested a rise. North Spire's towers loomed on a rocky hill, its walls veined with violet-black vines that wriggled like living serpents. A sullen wind carried ozone and rot.
Captain Merial raised a hand. "Survey confirms a single collapsed Well at its base. The tremor originates there."
Kaelen dismounted, snow crunching under boot. Wardens formed a ring around the pit's rim—spears bristling, shields interlocked. The four Aether-sages took stations: two wove overhead wards like a woven dome of jade light; the other two traced ground filaments to steady tremors. Liora and Jonah stood close, lantern and gauntlet at the ready.
Kaelen peered into the yawning pit—ice-coated stone smeared with dark crystalline residue. At its bottom a fractured core shard pulsed violet, tendrils writhing with tortured memory.
He clipped a warded rope to his belt. "Descend in squads of ten. Use only runed lines."
Orin, the veteran squad captain, tested the anchor rune. "Secure."
The first ten wardens slid down, their chants weaving binding runes around the shaft. The second wave followed.
Kaelen joined them. Halfway down, violet light surged. A backlash hit him like a battering ram—twisted cries of lost souls echoing in his chest. He gritted his teeth, drawing on lion-blood warmth to reinforce his harness ward. The rope pulsed under his weight.
"Focus on core, not fear!" Jonah's muffled voice crackled in his helm.
Kaelen inhaled white frost. "On it."
At the pit's floor, the shard throbbed in corrupted cadence. Two Ritual Adepts crouched by the ceiling, weaving dispel wards into a solid mesh; a Master of Runes circled the ember's edge with glowing glyphs; another sage controlled the rope's anchoring.
Kaelen's breath rasped. He knelt before the shard, whispering the Bonecrusher's Rite—crimson and gold sigils twisting in the air.
A voice hissed through the ward: "Hold it steady."
He rose, gauntlets charged. "Now."
His Iron Punch, channeled with fresh Aether, struck the shard's edge in a thunderous crack. Crystal and claw collided—shards flew like black starlight. Tendrils retracted, shrieking.
Backlash slammed him against the wall. Pain exploded in his ribs; stars bloomed in his vision. He slumped.
Liora knelt, tracing a healing rune at his collarbone. Warm emerald light blossomed, stitching torn flesh. "Steady," she whispered. "Breathe."
Kaelen exhaled, tasting copper and ice. He steadied himself. "Thank you," he rasped.
Ritual Adepts hoisted the ward-bound fragment. Two sages descended to guide it into a lead-lined crate; arcane locks clicked in seal. The Master of Runes traced triple wards around the crate's seams.
Jonah climbed down to Kaelen's side. "Rune checks?"
Liora tapped her runestone. "Restored from ambient flow."
Jonah tested the crate's glyphs. "Locked triple. No leaks."
Kaelen rose unsteadily. "Seal the Well." He traced a dispel circle on the rim; jade runes bloomed as violet residue hissed away.
The pit lay silent.
They climbed out as the last wardens stowed ropes. The convoy reformed. Hoofbeats drummed a triumphant cadence beneath a spire painted in dusk.
Before mounting, Kaelen turned to Liora and Jonah. "One victory. But the Iron Council's reach is vast."
Liora slung her lantern over his saddle. "We bear proof. Tomorrow's council will quake."
Jonah slung his cloak. "And we'll ride with it." He drew his knife; its hollow glowed faint gold with emergency Aether.
Kaelen nodded. "Let's camp in that ruined chapel." He pointed across a snow-drifted field where collapsed arches invited temporary shelter.
The chapel's courtyard crackled with fire as wardens pitched tents. Flames danced on ice-crusted stones. Kaelen sat on a low bench, embers painting scars on his gauntlet.
A warden named Salver approached, offering smoked fish. "Eat, champion. The road back will be long."
Kaelen accepted. "Thank you, Salver." He bit into fish; its smoky warmth revived him.
Liora unpacked her herbs. "I'll fortify the tent's wards." She laid tinctures on a stump, eyes drifting to Kaelen's bruised side. "Mind if I examine that?"
He rolled up his sleeve. "After battle, I'm all yours."
She traced a rune over his ribs. Pain flared then eased. "Better."
Jonah leaned back on his shield. "You ever think about leaving all this?" he asked quietly. "Find a quiet village, teach kids to shoot apples off their heads?"
Kaelen chuckled. "I was a brawler teaching street fights once. But I choose battle for a reason. This ember will light more than Wells—it'll carve justice into these walls."
Jonah nodded. "A worthy fight."
Night deepened. Kaelen watched smoke spiral into the frozen sky. He remembered a scruffy street skirmish, a dying boy's plea, the surge of lion-blood that saved him both. He found he no longer craved simple revenge—he craved purpose.
The embers in his gauntlet matched those in his heart.
He rose. "Rest. Dawn brings council storms."
Liora stowed her lantern inside his cloak. "And I'll be at your side."
Jonah strapped his gauntlet. "Always."
Kaelen stood between them, back to the hearth's glow. The chapel's spires leaned like silent sentinels. Beyond them lay politics, betrayal, and darker echoes. Yet in his palm, the ember pulsed with promise.
He was Ironclaw: champion of Wells, hunter of echoes, predator reborn. His legend would blaze through ice, through council fire, and beyond the frozen dawn.