The storm had passed, but it left scars. On the land. On them.
Joe sat on a cracked outcropping of stone overlooking the ruined plains. His cloak was torn, his skin burned from ash and lightning, and the Vault of Echoes had collapsed behind them like a wound slowly sealing. The others were quiet. Kaelen had gone on ahead to scout the horizon. Riven kept watch with arms crossed and blades always within reach.
The silence wasn't peace. It was something waiting.
Joe hadn't slept much since the Vault. The dreams were changing. Sometimes they weren't even dreams. Sometimes he heard things, his name spoken by static, memories that weren't his clawing into his mind. A feeling had taken root in his chest since the Well of Pale Flame. It hummed low, like a fault line. Waiting to break open.
They moved east.
The plains gave way to rusted barricades and iron watchtowers rising from the hills like rotten fangs. The sky above them churned a dull violet, and the ground beneath their feet grew firmer, fortified. The city that emerged was no gleaming sanctuary. It was built from desperation and violence.
Ascalith.
Towering black walls arched inward like they feared the sky itself. Defensive sigils glowed faintly over the gates. Guards wore charred leathers and hollow eyes, and crossbows tracked the group from behind rusted slits.
The gates opened.
They were met by one of the Ashguard, militia of the city's ruling class. The captain's voice was terse but respectful when Kaelen spoke. Joe caught the way some of the soldiers flinched when the frost mage passed. Not fear. Recognition.
Once inside, the city revealed its layers. Ascalith wasn't dead—it pulsed. Refugees bartered in smoky markets. Priests of ash and soot wandered between plague fires, praying for reprieve. Engineers clanked through alleyways with arcane tech strapped to their backs, arguing about glyph structure. Everything moved with purpose. Everything reeked of survival.
And watching from above, in a palace of obsidian and stone, sat Monarch Ellara Venn.
They were summoned to her court before they could even catch their breath.
Ellara was elegance shaped into menace. Her skin pale as bone, her silver eyes reflective like water before a drowning. She welcomed them with a voice like velvet over broken glass.
"You come with power clinging to your skin," she said, observing Joe with keen interest. "The western winds are clearing, and I suspect you're the reason."
Joe remained still. Kaelen spoke for them, measured and composed. Riven said nothing, but his hand lingered close to his blade.
Ellara offered shelter. Resources. Maps. Information about other Vaults and corrupted zones. She smiled too easily.
"You are storm-touched," she said. "A rare blessing. Or a curse we can shape."
Joe didn't trust her. But they needed what she offered.
They met him later that night, in the lower district's shadowed streets. He stepped from the dark like someone who belonged to it, his scarf covering the lower half of his face. His eyes were sharp and glinting with curiosity.
"You don't walk like the others," he told Joe.
Joe frowned. "You know me?"
"Not yet," the stranger replied. "But I make it my business to notice things that break patterns."
Kaelen shifted slightly. Riven's hand drifted toward his blade.
The stranger offered a shallow nod. "Name's Wren. If you're smart, you'll remember it."
Instead of tension, Joe found himself intrigued.
"And what does Wren want with us?"
He tossed Joe a small talisman, carved with an unfamiliar symbol.
"Consider this a marker. I know Ascalith. I know where the walls are weakest, and which ones aren't made of stone. You'll need help if you want to survive long enough to matter."
Riven remained suspicious. Kaelen said nothing. Joe simply pocketed the token.
Wren didn't vanish. He led them deeper into the undercity, through rusted pathways and forgotten courtyards, until they reached the Reckoners' Hall, the only institution besides the crown that held power in Ascalith.
"You'll need official standing," Wren said. "To buy equipment. To move between city rings. To be seen as more than a hazard."
The hall was carved from a collapsed ruin. Dark stone overlaid with iron sigils and crude murals of broken gods and fallen heroes. Inside, adventurers roared and bartered, clashing steel with laughter and curses. It stank of sweat, incense, and dried blood.
Kaelen approached the desk. The clerk didn't look up until Kaelen pressed his gloved hand to the registration stone. Frost bloomed across the surface, and the sigils flared blue.
The clerk blinked. "Iron-rank. Group sanctioned. No Vault clearance without sponsorship."
Kaelen nodded.
Joe stepped forward to sign next, but the clerk looked at him, truly looked, and hesitated. For a moment, the sigilstone sparked.
Then it dimmed.
Later, Joe found Wren perched on a half-collapsed balcony overlooking the guild's lower wing.
"You didn't have to help us," Joe said. "You could've disappeared after our first meeting."
Wren shrugged, tossing a stone from hand to hand. "I could've. But something's broken in this city. Something old. And you..."
He glanced sideways.
"You hum with it. Like a fracture left too long beneath pressure. I've seen what comes out of cracks like that. Might be better if I'm nearby when it bursts."
Joe didn't respond. He didn't need to. The static in his bones was louder than words.