The wind carried ash.
Sylvia stood on a jagged ridge overlooking her homeland — the Kingdom of the Arcanes — and the sight below made her stomach twist. Once, the realm had shimmered with violet light and floating runes that danced through the air like stars. Now, dark clouds swirled endlessly above the valley, their undersides glowing with poisonous hues of purple and black. Lightning flashed between them, illuminating a castle crowned in spiraling smoke.
Black and violet fog coiled around the towers, rising and falling like a living thing. The highest spire — the heart of the kingdom — pulsed with a sickly, enchanted glow. Beneath it, rivers of corrupted magic crawled through the streets, staining every stone they touched.
Her people moved like shadows through the ruins. Lines of weary elves trudged across the broken courtyards, chains clinking softly around their wrists. Others were dragged toward the castle gates, where the Grims stood watch — tall, twisted figures of shadow and steel, their eyes burning like dying stars.
Sylvia's breath hitched. "No…" Her voice broke as she clutched her cloak tighter around herself. "They're… slaves."
Kael's face hardened. "Or worse."
From high above, a scream echoed — shrill, desperate, then suddenly cut short. A gust of wind swept through the valley, carrying with it the faint smell of burning incense and blood. The very air felt tainted, heavy with enchantment gone wrong.
Sylvia's hands shook. "I can feel it. The Flame… it's reacting."
Kael nodded grimly. "This place used to hum with arcane energy — the most powerful kingdom in the lands. The Grims didn't just take it. They infected it."
A low, thunderous roar rolled from the direction of the castle. Dark wings unfurled across the highest tower — an omen, not a creature. Sylvia's gaze fixed on the silhouette standing at the balcony beneath it.
A woman — tall, slender, her hair silver as moonlight and her armor forged from shadow. Her eyes glowed crimson beneath the hood of her cloak. The air warped around her, the same way it had before the Flame had chosen Sylvia.
"Anastasia," Sylvia whispered.
Kael's expression tightened. "So she's real."
"She was a dark-elf general once," Sylvia murmured, barely able to speak the words. "My mother trusted her. She swore an oath to protect the Arcanes… until she was bewitched. The Grims promised her power beyond measure — and she turned on her own kind."
They watched as Anastasia raised her hand. Purple energy flared around her fingers, and one of the chained elves below collapsed, motionless. The others didn't even look up. They just kept walking.
Sylvia's voice trembled. "She's using them… as sacrifices."
Kael rested a hand on her shoulder. "We can't take her — not yet."
Sylvia's flame flickered weakly in her palm. "I should go down there. I could—"
"You'd die before you reached the gate." His tone was firm but not unkind. "You're powerful, Sylvia, but not enough to face her alone. Not yet."
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. Beneath the grief was something hotter — anger, fierce and alive. "Then I need to become stronger. We need allies, Kael. Armies, sorcerers, anyone who still remembers what the Arcanes stood for."
Kael nodded. "There are whispers of survivors — mages who fled before the fall, old guilds hiding in the northern cliffs. If we can find them, we can fight back."
Sylvia looked once more at the burning castle. The dark clouds above it pulsed, as though the kingdom itself were breathing — or mourning.
"Anastasia," she whispered, her voice low and sharp, "you took everything from me." The flames in her eyes flickered brighter. "But I will take it back."
The wind caught her cloak as she turned from the ridge. The first rays of dawn broke through the clouds, brushing her face with pale gold — a fragile light against the purple storm.
Kael fell into step beside her. "Where do we go first?"
"North," Sylvia said, not looking back. "To the cliffs. To whoever still remembers hope."
Behind them, the kingdom groaned — a sound like stone cracking under weight. High above the castle, Anastasia tilted her head slightly, as if she'd heard the vow carried on the wind.
And she smiled.