CHAPTER III
The Child of Two Paths
Silence fell upon the Lower Archives like a sudden snowfall, heavy and absolute. Even the floating orbs seemed to dim, as though reluctant to shine too brightly upon the words that had been revealed. The Codex of the First Age lay open upon its plinth, its ancient pages trembling faintly, stirred by currents of magic older than the Tower itself.
Archmage Elyndor regarded Alaric with an intensity that made the boy feel as though every secret thought and half-remembered dream were being laid bare.
"Tell me," the Archmage said at last, his voice low and measured, "what do you know of your mother's lineage?"
The question struck Alaric like a blow.
"My mother?" he echoed. "She died when I was young. Father said she was from the western forests. A healer. Nothing more."
Elyndor's eyes flicked briefly to the symbol upon the Codex—the crowned serpent encircling flame—then back to Alaric.
"Names are often buried to protect the living," he said. "And bloodlines are hidden when the world is not ready for what they may awaken."
Lysa looked from the Archmage to Alaric, confusion and awe mingling on her face. "Master Elyndor… are you saying the prophecy speaks of him?"
"The words do not bind a single destiny," Elyndor replied. "But they do mark a convergence. The Child of Two Paths. One bound to flame, one to crown. One born of the wild, one sworn to the realm."
He turned to Alaric. "Your father is a ranger of the King's Watch. Your mother, if the threads I see are true, was of the Emberline—descended from those who once tended the Dragon-Forges in the Age of Ash."
Alaric's heart thundered in his chest. "That's impossible. Dragons are gone. The forges are ruins."
"Ruins still remember," Elyndor said softly. "And blood remembers most of all."
A deep tremor rolled through the Tower.
Dust fell from the high vaults. Somewhere above, a crystal chimed, its note sharp with warning.
"The second seal weakens," murmured one of the attending mages who had followed Elyndor into the chamber. "The ley-line at Frostfall is destabilizing."
Elyndor straightened. "Prepare the Circle. And send riders to the King. He must know that the bindings are failing faster than we feared."
The mage bowed and hurried away.
Elyndor's gaze returned to Alaric. "You dreamed of fire, did you not? Of wings and falling stars?"
Alaric swallowed. "Yes."
"Not all dreams are born of the mind. Some are echoes, carried across blood and time. The dragons were bound, but their memory was not. It sleeps in the world, and in those whose lineage once walked close to flame."
Lysa drew a sharp breath. "You mean… he could be… connected to them?"
Elyndor did not answer directly. Instead, he closed the Codex with a gesture, the clasps sealing themselves with a sound like distant thunder.
"There are choices before you, Alaric Thorne. Two paths, as the prophecy says. One leads deeper into the Tower, into study, preparation, and the slow, careful weaving of defense. The other leads beyond the walls, into a world that is about to burn."
Alaric thought of his father marching north, of Graywatch in ruins, of the darkening sky beyond the Ironspines.
"What lies on the Fire-Road?" he asked.
"Truth," Elyndor said. "And danger. And the possibility of awakening what the world has tried to forget."
Before Alaric could reply, a horn sounded from the city below—three long blasts, the signal of an approaching host.
The Tower's great bells answered, their voices rolling across Kharondel like thunder.
Lysa ran to one of the high windows. "There are riders on the northern road. Not ours."
Elyndor moved to her side, his expression grave. "So swiftly. The shadow does not wait."
From the window, Alaric saw them: dark figures against the snow, their banners black and torn, bearing a sigil he did not recognize—a circle split by a jagged line, like a wound in the world.
"They carry no royal colors," Lysa whispered. "And their armor… it's old. Pre-Conquest."
"Servants of the Broken Flame," Elyndor said. "A cult thought extinguished with their masters. They were dragon-worshippers in the Age of Ash, bound by oaths to Vorthraxx himself."
Alaric felt a chill deeper than winter. "They're coming here?"
"They are coming for the Tower," Elyndor replied. "And for what lies within it."
As if in answer, the air shuddered. A wave of heat swept through the chamber, though no fire was visible. The sigils in the floor flared crimson, and the floating orbs blazed like miniature suns.
"The outer wards are under assault," Elyndor said. "We have little time."
He turned to Alaric, placing a hand upon his shoulder. The touch was light, yet it carried a weight that seemed to sink into bone and soul alike.
"You stand at the crossing of paths, child of ranger and ember-blood. If you remain, you will be protected, trained, and bound to the Tower's fate. If you leave, you will walk into a world that is awakening to its oldest terror. But you may also find the keys to understanding it."
Alaric's thoughts raced. He saw again the burning forest of his dreams, the vast wings moving through smoke. He saw his father's back as he marched toward the north, and the prophecy's words burned in his mind:
The Child of Two Paths shall walk the Fire-Road.
"What would you have me do?" he asked.
Elyndor's eyes softened. "What I would have and what fate requires are not always the same. The choice must be yours. That is the nature of the Second Path."
Another tremor shook the Tower, stronger than the first. From above came the distant clash of steel and the crack of thunderous magic.
"They are breaching the lower gates," a voice cried from the stairwell.
Lysa looked at Alaric, fear and determination mingling in her gaze. "Whatever you decide… decide quickly."
Alaric closed his eyes for a heartbeat. In the darkness, he saw the Fire-Road: a path of glowing embers stretching into shadow, bordered by the silhouettes of mountains and wings.
When he opened them again, his voice was steady.
"I will go," he said. "If the dragons are returning, and if my blood is tied to them, then hiding behind walls will not change what is coming. I need to understand what I am… and what the world is becoming."
Elyndor studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"So be it. The Second Path opens."
He raised his staff, striking it once upon the stone floor. The sigils flared, and a section of the wall shimmered, revealing a narrow archway of light.
"Beyond this way lies the Deep Ways—ancient tunnels that run beneath the city and beyond the mountains. They were carved in the First Age, when dragon and dwarf and mage still spoke as uneasy allies. They will lead you out of Kharondel, beyond the reach of those who now assail it."
"And then?" Alaric asked.
"Then you will follow the Fire-Road," Elyndor said. "To the ruins of Kaer'Thalan, where the first seal has fallen. There, answers await—if you survive to claim them."
Lysa stepped forward. "He won't go alone."
Elyndor raised an eyebrow. "This is not a journey for apprentices."
"Then it is a journey for those who refuse to let the world burn in ignorance," she replied. "I can read the old tongues. I can sense the flow of the ley-lines. And I won't let him face what's coming without an ally."
For a moment, Elyndor seemed about to refuse. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
"Very well. Two paths often walk better than one."
He handed Alaric a small, wrapped bundle. Inside was a dagger of dark metal, its blade etched with faint, glowing runes.
"Star-forged steel," Elyndor said. "It has tasted dragonfire and did not melt. May it serve you when flame rises against you."
To Lysa, he gave a slender crystal rod. "A focus for your gift. Guard it well."
Above them, the battle for the Tower raged, the air thick with the sound of clashing wards and shouted spells. Time was slipping away like sand through open fingers.
"Go," Elyndor said. "And remember: the Fire-Road does not only burn. It also illuminates."
Alaric and Lysa stepped through the archway.
Light swallowed them, and the sounds of the Tower faded, replaced by the cool, echoing silence of the Deep Ways. Stone corridors stretched into darkness, lit by veins of faintly glowing crystal. The air smelled of age and hidden waters.
Behind them, the archway closed, leaving only solid stone.
Alaric took a slow breath.
"We've really done it," Lysa whispered.
"Yes," he said. "And I don't think there's any turning back."
Far above, unseen and unfelt, the first true roar of a dragon rolled across the Ironspine Mountains, shaking snow from their peaks and awakening echoes that had slept for two centuries.
The Fire-Road had opened.