Chapter 11
The skies above the Hollowed Spires didn't just burn that dawn — they screamed.
Wings of starlight tore through the clouds, as if the heavens themselves sought to descend and rewrite the earth. Trees wilted, not from flame, but from sheer recollection — ancient memories unraveling into the soil.
At the epicenter of it all stood Nezutsu.
His hand throbbed with the open Eye. Blood dripped from his palm onto the ground, where each drop gave rise to flickers of violet flame that did not burn, but whispered.
"I see you," one flame said.
"I remember," said another.
Kaelith circled him warily, blade still wet with moonlight from the night's earlier skirmish.
"You're changing," she said. "Even the wind doesn't touch you now."
Nezutsu didn't reply. His mind felt split — as if someone else was humming within his bones. A voice without a mouth. A scream without fear.
"The Archivist marked me," he whispered.
"No," Kaelith said. "You marked him. That's why they're afraid now."
A tremor shook the ground.
The Flame-Walkers' Arrival
Through the broken veil of the northern horizon, figures emerged — six of them, cloaked in robes of twilight and bearing no faces, only burning brands across their chests.
"Flame-Walkers," Kaelith hissed. "Servants of the Eye Council. Guardians of the sealed truths."
They did not speak. Instead, they raised silver staves carved with forgotten constellations and pointed them toward Nezutsu.
The earth cracked beneath his feet. Not from power — but response.
The land recognized him.
"What are they doing?" Nezutsu asked.
"They're trying to bind your origin. Anchor it. Make it traceable."
"They won't."
He raised his hand — and the violet fire roared outward like a storm of echoes.
The first two Flame-Walkers vanished in a burst of silence.
The others hesitated — only for a moment — then retreated.
Kaelith stared at Nezutsu, eyes wide.
"That wasn't a spell."
"I didn't say anything."
"That was will."
Visions of the Past
That night, as the world around them grew eerily still, Nezutsu dreamt again.
He stood upon a battlefield of black glass and golden ash. Hundreds of figures knelt before him — and in his hand, not a sword, but a mask shaped like the sun.
A voice echoed through the silence.
"You led them once. Not as Nezutsu. But as the Ash Sovereign."
The name struck him like thunder. He fell to his knees.
"What is this?"
"A fragment. A crack in the seal. You weren't supposed to remember yet. But you're burning too bright. Even your past cannot look away."
He woke with a start.
Kaelith was already awake, her gaze on the horizon.
"We have to move," she said. "The Eye Council won't wait. Now that the Flame-Walkers failed, they'll send something worse."
"Worse?"
"The Voice-Eater."
Nezutsu stood, the sword hovering silently by his side — not sheathed, not drawn, just there, like a thought waiting to be spoken.
"Then let them come."
The Eye on his hand pulsed.
Behind him, the trees whispered again —
"Ash Sovereign… welcome back."
[TO BE CONTINUED...]