Kaelen rode north for three days under a sky that darkened with every league. Trees turned to bone-gray stalks, and birds ceased their songs. He passed frozen lakes and forgotten cairns, each bearing symbols he did not recognize.
On the fourth night, something followed him.
He heard its steps behind his horse's hooves—light but deliberate. When he turned, he saw only mist.
He stopped to rest near a broken statue half-buried in snow. It was the head of a woman, crowned with fire. Her eyes were hollow. At midnight, the thing stepped from the fog.
It was tall and gaunt, cloaked in black iron. A helm covered its face, and smoke curled from its joints like breath.
"You bear the sword of the king," it said in a voice like coal cracking.
Kaelen stood. "And I will use it, if I must."
"You seek the Crown."
"I seek my sister."
"They are one and the same."
It raised a hand, and flame licked from its palm.
"The fire calls to you, Kaelen of Werrick. Will you answer?"
Kaelen drew Virelion.
"I will do what I must."
Their battle lit the night sky with sparks. Steel screamed against steel. When the creature fell, it dissolved into ash. And in its place remained a ring of scorched earth—at the center, a black stone glowing with inner flame.
Kaelen pocketed it. The first key.