Sarnfell smoldered behind them.
The mountain pass was silent again, save for the wind. Snow fell thick and heavy, but Drex barely felt it. The fire in his blood had not dimmed since the death of Magister Corven.
He had hoped it would.
Kaelith walked beside him, her hood drawn low. She hadn't spoken since they'd left the ruins. Not until the ridge flattened and they found a cave mouth, carved into the mountainside like a wound.
"We rest here," she said simply.
Drex followed without protest. He could feel the exhaustion in his bones now, creeping in like frost through a cracked window.
---
Inside, the cave was dry and deep. Kaelith conjured a small flame with a flick of her fingers, its light dancing against the walls. Drex sat with his back against the stone and pulled the blade from its sheath.
It whispered to him.
Not in words. But in memory.
Corven's blood still clung to it—still fed it.
Kaelith watched him from across the fire. "It's changing."
He looked up. "What?"
"The blade. It's not just bound to you. It's learning from you."
Drex stared at the weapon. It no longer looked like any forged steel he'd seen in his life. The surface shimmered faintly with crimson veins, its edge glowing faintly in darkness. Like it breathed.
"What if it becomes something I can't control?" he asked.
Kaelith didn't answer for a long time.
Then she reached into her satchel and pulled out a weathered tome, wrapped in cloth and sealed with black wax.
"The Book of Ash," she said. "The last surviving record of the flamebound rites. It speaks of Rathmaelos. And the blades forged in his name."
Drex took it in his hands. The moment he touched it, the wax seal cracked, and heat pulsed through the air.
"It was written in blood," Kaelith said. "By those who tried to contain the fire, not use it."
---
Within the Pages
He read by firelight.
Words twisted on the parchment, written in an old dialect of Imperial Arcanum. But the blade helped him understand—somehow.
> The fire is not death. It is remembrance.
The vessel must suffer. The vessel must burn.
Only through pain may it choose. Only through war may it awaken.
> The blade is not a weapon. It is a question.
What price would you pay for peace?
What blood would you spill for memory?
Drex closed the book.
His heart thundered.
"This isn't just a curse," he said.
Kaelith's eyes met his. "No. It's a crucible."
---
A New Target
"We head south next," she said. "To the city of Vel Orreth."
Drex frowned. "That's deep in Crown territory."
"And home to the Archivist-General. His real name is Veckros Dhal. He was the one who commissioned the soulbinding trials. Ordered the massacre at Valebend. He won't be hidden like Corven. He has guards. Power. Influence."
Drex stood slowly.
"I don't care how high his walls are."
Kaelith allowed herself a small smile. "Good."
Then her face hardened.
"Because after him, we go after the King."
---
Elsewhere – In the Capital of Cindralis
King Tellen Vire stood before the Mirror of Mourning.
Its surface shimmered with visions—of Drex, of Kaelith, of burning temples.
He turned to his new advisor. A woman in black robes, her face veiled in silver chains. Her voice was like wind over bone.
"He's begun to remember," Tellen said.
The woman nodded. "And the blade has tasted Circle blood."
"Then we must act."
The woman tilted her head. "The other seals are weakening. If he finds the Vault of Twelve, the flame will consume him fully."
Tellen looked back into the mirror.
"Then send the Shadeborn. Let them remind him what happens… when monsters forget their chains."