The wind howled atop the obsidian cliffs of Halvareth, where the sky cracked with golden lightning and the air shimmered with threads of divine power. At its edge stood Airam, her cloak whipping around her like wings made of ash and flame. In her right hand, the staff blazed with twin fires—white for the Breath, gold for the Flamekeeper's lineage. In her left, a single rune hovered, pulsing like a heartbeat: the symbol of judgment.
Below, an army stirred.
Not of men, but of spectral wraiths—sent by the Thrones. Shadows with no soul, bound only to the will of the Order.
Airam narrowed her eyes.
Behind her, the Custodian limped into view, his mask now fused with fresh cracks. "You know they will come in full this time."
"I'm counting on it," Airam replied. Her voice was no longer soft—it was steel wrapped in fire.
The Custodian handed her a rolled scroll, sealed in wax with the sigil of the vanished throne.
"This is their law. Break it, and their power begins to unravel."
Airam took it and tucked it into her cloak. "And Liam?"
"He walks a dangerous path." The Custodian hesitated. "But he walks it toward you."
---
Liam…
He rode hard across the Redline Wastes, blood caked on his arm from a battle he didn't remember starting.
The vision burned in his head.
The old man—gone. Their hut destroyed.
A message left in ash:
> Find the Queen. She remembers.
And now, he did too.
The Flamebound were not servants. They were anchors. If the vessel broke, the bondholder fell into madness—or death.
But there was more.
In the ruins of the hut, he'd seen a hidden scroll addressed in his mother's handwriting.
He was not only Flamebound to Airam—he was descended from the first protector, the one who chose love over obedience. His blood had never served the Order. It had defied it.
And now… it burned with purpose.
He urged the horse faster.
He had to reach her before the Order passed judgment.
---
Halvareth…
Dusk turned to deep night, and with it came the sound of wings.
Seven pairs.
The sky shattered with sound as the remaining Thrones descended, ringed in halos of light and shadow. Each one took position above the cliffs, towering and radiant, their faces still hidden—but their voices, unrelenting.
> "You were chosen to burn. You refuse."
> "You remember what was erased."
> "You will now be judged."
Airam stepped forward. "I accept your judgment."
For a moment, silence.
Then laughter—cruel and resonant.
> "You think you can survive it?"
"I don't intend to survive it," Airam said. "I intend to end it."
She slammed her staff into the stone.
The scroll burst open in golden flame. The law of the Thrones unraveled—its rules dissolving like parchment in rain.
The sky shivered.
> "You dare erase our command?"
Airam's voice rose like a war drum. "You erased queens. You erased hope. You erased me. Now it's your turn to be forgotten."
The Breath answered.
With a roar, white fire surged upward—meeting the halos of the Thrones.
And for the first time, they flinched.
She lifted the staff high.
> "Judgment is mine now."
The staff burst into radiant energy, the runes spinning like blades. She flung the first wave at the Throne of Silence.
It shattered.
Screams echoed across the planes as the wraith-army recoiled, untethered from their source.
A moment later, a horn blew—
From the other side of the battlefield.
Liam.
He rode up the cliff path, bloodied and breathless, a second staff in hand—the twin of Airam's, forged by the old Flamebound.
He leapt off the horse, ran to her side.
"Sorry I'm late."
Airam laughed, heart pounding. "You brought backup?"
"Only myself," he said, raising the staff. "And I'm enough."
Together, they stood side by side.
Airam turned to him, eyes blazing. "Ready?"
"Born ready."
The sky split again.
Five Thrones remained.
They began to descend.
Their final form—giant, angelic beasts clad in molten armor, eyes like suns, each bearing a weapon forged from the first magic.
The final war had begun.
Airam turned to Liam. "If I fall—"
"You won't," he said firmly. "But if you do, I'll burn the sky to bring you back."
She smiled—and then stepped forward, lifting her staff once more.
The Breath roared.
---
Far above the battlefield…
The last of the Thrones watched from the veil.
He had not descended.
Not yet.
He whispered to the wind:
> "Let them fight. Let her rise. When the fire consumes all... I will walk through the ash."
And in his hand, he held something wrapped in black silk.
A lock of silver hair.
Not Airam's.
But someone's whose return would break her heart.