Chapter 23: The Broken Oath and the Silent Wing
The path to the Ashfold Peaks was a barren one. Grey cliffs tore the sky into frayed ribbons, and a screaming bitter wind howled over the mountain pass like some nameless beast. No snow had fallen there for years — not in the natural way. The peaks were blackened once, ages ago, by fire that never ceased.
Seyra Vael led the way on horseback, blade sheathed but always within reach. Aeren Thorne followed, less sure in the saddle, journal clutched like a talisman.
"We're being followed," she said at dusk, her voice flat.
"I haven't heard a thing," Aeren replied.
"You haven't trained in Vorraska."
They didn't stop to investigate. Not yet. Seyra knew how to bait a tail.
But when they bivouacked near an abandoned waystone, their stalker stepped out into the firelight — not with a blade, but bent head and raised hands.
He was young, around twenty. Torn mage robes. Black hair. Eyes too sharp for one so weary.
"I brought wine," he said, holding up a bottle.
Seyra's sword was half-drawn from its sheath. "Name."
"Morthain," he said smoothly. "Ex-Arcaneum. Now. out of work."
"Why are you tailing us?"
Morthain smiled. "Because the world's falling apart at the seams. And you're stepping right into the crack."
Aeren stepped forward. "You know something about the seal?
"I know magic is fraying at the edges. Spells slip. Runes twist. The Weave stutters like it's choking on its own name. Something beneath the Ashfold woke up — and it's not part of the gods' plan."
Seyra studied him. "You're a liar."
"I was a scholar. Now I'm a liar with a map."
That was how he earned a place by the fire.
That night, while Seyra stood watch, Aeren breathed gently, "Do you think we can trust him?"
"No," she said. "But I trust his fear."
—
High above, on the blast-battered crags of the Ashfold, Zethyr alone in his hooded human form stood.
He had walked the world for nearly four centuries, yet never so. motionless.
No dragonkind had been seen in Solamnia in decades. The older flights had vanished into the hidden recesses of the world. Some called it retreat. Others called it extinction.
Zethyr called it betrayal.
He kneeled beside an ancient cairn — the grave of one such as he. His silver eyes scanned the sky.
Still no stars.
He gazed toward the cave mouth behind him — an ancient scar in stone. Something pulsed within.
He had not felt it again in decades.
The First Flame.
But it was not single.
He felt another presence now — watching, stretching. Mocking.
"Even buried," he snarled, "your poison spreads."
Zethyr rose and walked toward the cave.
Frost began to spread behind him where ground should have scorched.
Elsewhere, far below the peaks in the ruins, a sigil was awakened. Not by fire, but by void — color draining from stone as it glowed.
A chained figure stirred in the shadows.
It possessed no eyes, but it smiled.
> "The oath is broken," it spat.
"The wings will fall.
And the fire will forget who lit it."