The road north was treacherous.
Kael Valari and Elyria rode under heavy cloaks, flanked only by a single dwarven companion—Thrain Stonefist—who had insisted on accompanying them after hearing the name Ashmere. He had traveled through its shattered ruins once before, long ago, and had no desire to see them fall into the hands of the Hollow King.
Their destination lay beyond forests that did not whisper, but watched. Past frost-claimed rivers where the wind howled in forgotten tongues. Before they could face Ashmere—and whatever truth awaited them with the Sword of Emberfall—they had to pass through a place few dared name aloud.
The Hollowmere Glade.
Where lived the last seer of fire.
And she never gave visions freely.
The Glade Between Worlds
It was neither day nor night when they arrived.
The trees twisted into unnatural arches, black leaves clinging to bare branches. The sky above seemed cracked—split by pale stars that shimmered through fog. The air shimmered unnaturally, as if time itself shifted here.
Thrain's voice was gravel. "This place is older than memory."
Kael stepped forward.
The glade opened before him like a wound, and in its center sat a small stone shrine carved with runes that flickered orange-red. Smoke curled from a copper brazier. Around it were skulls — human, elf, dwarf — all burned black and grinning.
Kael approached.
From the smoke stepped a woman cloaked in shadows.
She had no face—only a carved wooden mask painted with streaks of blood and ash.
"I have waited for you, flame-born," she said.
Kael stopped. "You know me?"
"I know what you are," she replied. "And I know what you must pay."
He glanced at Elyria, then stepped forward. "I need to know how to stop him. Varethul. The Hollow King."
The mask tilted. "You do not stop him."
"What?"
"You become him."
The Price of Fire
Kael's blood ran cold.
The seer circled him slowly, trailing a hand along his shoulder without touching.
"You are twin flames from the same wick," she whispered. "Born from the same wound in the world. He was the first. You are the last. Between you lies the sword that will break the world."
"The Sword of Emberfall?"
The mask nodded. "But to find it, you must give me blood."
Kael hesitated. "What kind of blood?"
"Yours."
Before he could protest, she drew a blade of obsidian and sliced across his palm.
Kael hissed, falling to one knee as his blood sizzled on the brazier. Flames leapt skyward, turning black at their tips.
Elyria stepped forward, but the Seer raised a hand.
"Now he sees."
The Vision
Kael's world vanished in a burst of fire.
He stood alone on a battlefield of ash. The skies were torn with firestorms. Cities burned in the distance.
Before him, two thrones stood.
One was forged of bone and frost. The other of ember and steel.
Upon the first sat Varethul the Hollow, his skeletal hands resting on the arms of the throne, a crown of thorns upon his head.
Upon the second—Kael himself.
But both thrones began to melt. Their fires died.
From the sky, a woman's voice echoed:
"The thrones are lies. The swords are lies.Only choice is truth."
Kael turned—and behind him stood Serenya, his mother, cloaked in fire.
She placed her hand on his chest.
"You are not born to rule," she said. "You are born to decide."
Awakening
Kael awoke with a scream, the wound on his hand still smoking.
The Seer knelt before him, pressing something into his palm.
A shard of molten glass—etched with ancient runes.
"A piece of the sword," she said. "Left behind when the blade was shattered. You must reunite the pieces. Only then will you see what the sword truly is."
Kael stood, breath ragged. "And if I do?"
The Seer turned away. "Then may the gods forgive us."
A Forbidden Path
As they rode north once more, Kael studied the shard in his hand.
"Did you believe what she said?" Elyria asked softly.
Kael didn't answer for a long time.
Then: "I think... she's right. Varethul and I—we're bound. But if I can find the rest of this sword, maybe I can change what I'm meant to be."
Thrain grunted. "Prophecy's like a drunken dwarf. Loud, messy, and liable to hit you in the face when you least expect it."
Elyria laughed softly.
Kael smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
Ashmere Keep
They crested a hill at dusk, and there it was.
Ashmere Keep — an ancient stronghold carved into the black stone cliffs. Its towers rose like jagged teeth, and its banners once bore the sigil of the Ember Kings: a phoenix wreathed in flame.
Now, the towers were broken.
The banners torn.
Frost rimed the stone.
And at the center of the courtyard stood the Sword of Emberfall, impaled into the earth, surrounded by ice and bone.
But something stood before it.
A man.
Wreathed in black.
Waiting.
The Revenant Knight
Kael dismounted, drawing his blade.
The figure turned.
Its face was pale, eyes glowing dim blue.
"You carry his blood," it said. "And you come for his sword."
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
"I was the first to wield Emberfall. The first to burn the world."
The revenant drew a blade of frost.
"If you would claim the sword... you must defeat the one who broke it."
Kael raised his blade. "Then come break me."
Clash at Ashmere
The fight was brutal.
The revenant moved like lightning, his strikes precise, filled with the rage of centuries. Kael fought with everything he had, the shard burning hot in his pocket, the prophecy whispering in his ears.
Elyria and Thrain held off the dead rising from the surrounding snow.
Steel rang.
Blood fell.
Kael dropped to one knee, the revenant looming over him.
Then—
A blast of light.
The shard in Kael's pouch burst into flame.
And the Sword of Emberfall answered.
It leapt from the ground into Kael's hand, reforged in fire, runes blazing.
With a single strike, Kael cleaved through the revenant's blade and into his chest.
The undead knight gasped.
Then smiled.
"Then it begins."
He fell.
And the keep fell silent.
Legacy of Flame
Kael stood, the sword blazing in his grip.
Elyria approached, eyes wide.
"Is it... done?"
Kael shook his head.
"No."
He looked to the north.
"There are three more relics."
He turned to his companions.
"And then... there's him."
Far beyond the keep, atop the icy cliffs of Vaer-Khol, Varethul the Hollow stood at the edge of the world, watching.
And for the first time in an age, he smiled.