The witch lived alone beneath the roots of an ancient yew tree. She had lived there before Kaelen was born, before the crown had turned golden, before the last war. Her name was whispered by peasants and feared by lords—Elira the Hollow.
Kaelen found her hut as the moon rose. Pale light cut through the mist like a blade, casting long shadows. He knocked once, then stepped back. A moment later, the wooden door creaked open without touch.
"Your boots are covered in the blood of the Vale," came a rasping voice.
"I need answers," Kaelen said, stepping inside.
The interior smelled of moss and salt. Hanging herbs brushed his head. Elira sat by a hearth that glowed without wood. Her eyes were white and blind—but she saw him clearly.
"You seek the Ember Crown," she said.
He blinked. "I never spoke of—"
"You carry its scent. Smoke, ash, vengeance."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "My sister—Aelis—was taken. I don't know by who. The fires came, and then she was gone."
Elira leaned forward. "She was not taken. She was chosen."
"Chosen by what?"
"The flame beneath the mountain. The Cindermind. A sleeping god, older than your kings, older than the forests."
Kaelen frowned. "A god? We were taught those were stories."
"All stories are truths, softened for children."
He stepped closer. "Then tell me the real one."
The witch smiled. "To find her, you must pass into the Dead Vale. You must survive the Iron Moors. And you must kneel before fire... or burn like the rest."
Kaelen's hand went again to his sword.
"Will I survive?"
Elira only laughed.