The black fires smoldered for days after the clash.
Even as Alan's group traveled southward, the scent of scorched earth clung to the wind, a reminder that Ashren was still alive—and gathering strength.
Seris crouched by a ridge overlooking a narrow canyon. Below, a river of molten rock slithered like a living thing, cutting the earth into deep scars.
She scowled. "There. Movement."
Alan knelt beside her, sharp blue eyes catching a flicker of shapes.
A gathering.
Not soldiers, not merchants.
Creatures.
Twisted men and beasts—once human, now disfigured by curses and magic—huddled around a black altar made of bone and shattered metal.
At their center stood Ashren.
His chest was bare, scarred with glowing runes. His eyes burned with even deeper malice than before.
"He's forging a pact," Kraevok growled, his hand tightening on his sword.
Seris frowned. "With what?"
Alan didn't blink. "With the Blood-Splinter tribes."
*****
The Blood-Splinter tribes were legend.
Descendants of ancient warriors who had long ago sold their souls for power. Their bodies mutated—some bore scales, some feathers, some wore extra arms or grotesque, eyeless faces on their backs.
But they shared one thing in common:
They served power above all else.
And Ashren… offered them ruin.
*****
Down below, Ashren raised his hands, speaking in a language older than men.
Blood dripped from his palms onto the altar, soaking into the ground. The molten river hissed, and from the canyon walls, monstrous figures slithered forth—Blood-Splinter chieftains.
They circled Ashren.
They did not bow.
Ashren offered them a piece of his seal—splintering his own soul into shards to bind them.
One by one, the chieftains accepted, pressing the shards into their flesh.
Howls split the canyon.
The pact was sealed.
Ashren's army had just grown tenfold.
*****
Alan rose to his feet, katana humming with a faint pulse.
"We can't let them finish."
Kraevok grinned darkly. "Good. I was getting bored."
Seris slipped a poisoned dagger from her boot. "In. Silent. Dead."
Alan nodded.
They moved.
*****
The descent into the canyon was brutal.
The heat from the molten river burned the air itself. Mutated beasts prowled the shadows, sniffing for intruders.
But Alan's group was faster.
Smarter.
Seris struck first, silently slitting the throat of a scout without a whisper. Kraevok followed, cutting down two Blood-Splinter warriors in a blur of shadow and steel.
Alan didn't stop to fight the weak.
He had one target.
Ashren.
Their eyes met again across the firelit altar.
Ashren bared his teeth. "Brother."
Alan answered with steel.
He launched forward, katana flashing with violet magic, cutting through the nearest Blood-Splinter warrior as if slicing through mist.
Ashren laughed—and this time, he unleashed his new power.
The chieftains roared, their bodies warping further as the splintered seal magic filled them. Bones cracked, muscles tore and regrew, monstrous forms taking shape.
The battlefield became chaos.
Alan ducked a spear of bone, rolled beneath a clawed strike, and drove his katana through a chieftain's heart.
The creature screamed—but not in death.
In transformation.
Ashren's magic was too deep now.
Killing them only made them worse.
Alan gritted his teeth.
If direct strikes wouldn't work…
Then it was time to destroy the source.
Ashren himself.