The wind was bitter on the ridgeline, where even the pine trees bowed beneath the weight of frost. Kael stood at the edge of the cliff, his cloak snapping in the gale, eyes fixed on the ruins below. The remains of Skyhold Fortress were sprawled across the valley like the bones of a slain beast—shattered towers, broken walls, and banners that no longer bore a crest.
Beside him, Lyra scanned the horizon through a spyglass, her gloved fingers steady despite the cold.
"No movement," she said. "But I don't like the silence."
Kael nodded. "The Sigil pulls toward the heart of the ruin. Something's waiting."
Behind them, the small expeditionary force—barely twenty soldiers and scouts—huddled near the treeline. Their journey had taken them through ghost villages and burnt-out watchposts, and morale had frayed with each step north. But none had turned back. Not yet.
He turned to Lyra. "We go in. Quietly. Just the two of us."
She lowered the spyglass, eyebrow raised. "You're learning."
They descended the slope without fanfare, winding through crumbled paths and twisted stone. Snow had half-buried the outer walls of Skyhold, and the main gate hung from its hinges like a tooth knocked loose. They passed beneath it, blades sheathed but hands never far from the hilts.
Inside, Skyhold was deathly still.
No birds. No wind. Just the whisper of snow falling from broken roofs and the soft crunch of their boots. Kael's Sigil began to glow faintly beneath his armor, the heartbeat of fire in a land long extinguished.
They reached the central courtyard—a massive open space once used for drills and mustering. Now, it was a graveyard of shattered armor and blackened bones. In the center, atop a stone platform dusted with frost, stood a figure cloaked in gray.
Kael froze.
Lyra's hand found her hilt instantly. "He's alive."
"No," Kael whispered. "He's waiting."
The figure turned. His eyes were white, glowing faintly like dying stars. Not empty—full of something else.
"I felt you coming," he said, voice echoing unnaturally. "The Sigil sings in your blood."
Kael stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I was called Erith. Before the sky burned. Before they made me the Warden."
Lyra moved beside Kael, her expression wary. "Warden of what?"
Erith looked up, to the open heavens above. "Of the tear. Of the wound."
He extended a hand. The snow parted around them, revealing a deep, jagged scar in the stone—black and throbbing with sickly purple light. It pulsed like a heart, slow and wrong.
Kael recoiled instinctively. "A Rift."
Erith nodded. "One of many. The steward tears the fabric thin. He is not building gates. He is unraveling the veil."
Kael's jaw clenched. "Then we'll stop him."
"You are not enough."
The words stung with truth. Kael knew it. Even with the Sigil, even with allies gathering, they were outmatched.
"But you could be," Erith continued. "If you survive what comes next."
The wind shifted. A low hum filled the air—vibration in bone and stone. From the Rift, a shadow began to rise. Not a creature of form, but of hunger. It had no shape, only claws of void, a maw of stars, and a presence that stole warmth.
Lyra drew her sword, fire dancing across the blade. "What the hell is that?"
Kael felt the Sigil burn. "One of the Forlorn. A thing from before flame. We can't let it breach."
Erith stepped back. "Then face it, bearer."
The shadow shrieked.
The courtyard exploded into chaos.
Lyra met it first, a blur of flame and steel. She leapt across broken stone, striking with precision—but her blade passed through the creature like wind through smoke. It howled, and the temperature dropped. Ice formed on Kael's pauldrons, biting into flesh.
He focused.
The Sigil responded.
Flame erupted from his palm, but it wasn't normal fire—it was old, burning white-blue with crackling veins of gold. He thrust it forward, and the shadow screamed. The fire clung to it, slowed it.
"Now!" Kael shouted.
Lyra struck again. This time, her sword carved a line of light through the beast, tearing it in two.
The scream it let out echoed for miles.
The shadow crumbled. The Rift pulsed once more—then went still.
Kael fell to his knees, breath ragged. The cold receded slowly, like a wound reluctantly clotting.
Erith stepped forward. "You wield more than the Sigil. The flame inside you remembers its purpose."
Kael stood slowly. "What was that thing?"
"One of many. The Forlorn wait in the places between. They smell the steward's work. He feeds them—weakens the threads. They come through the tears. Soon, they won't need doors at all."
Lyra exhaled, still on edge. "And you? Why are you here?"
Erith looked at her with a gaze older than stone. "I was once a knight of the Circle. When the Brand was sundered, I chose exile over madness. I remained to guard this wound. Until someone worthy came."
Kael stepped forward. "Then help us. We need to find the others."
Erith looked down at the Rift. "There are four wounds. Four keys. Each bearer must seal one. If even one is left open, the veil will collapse."
Kael nodded. "We already found one fragment. We can find the rest."
Erith turned. "Then take this."
He reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a stone—flat, circular, etched with ancient flame runes. It pulsed in harmony with Kael's Sigil.
"The first echo," Erith said. "The Warden's Flame. It will guide you to the others."
Kael accepted it reverently. The moment it touched his skin, a vision flashed across his mind: a desert tower, burning at twilight. A chained warrior with a shattered mask. A voice that whispered, "Free me."
He blinked. "I saw… someone. Trapped."
Erith nodded. "She waits. The next bearer. Find her before the steward does."
Kael looked to Lyra. She was already adjusting her grip on the sword, her usual answer to a challenge.
"We'll go at dawn," Kael said.
Erith faded back into the shadows. "Then may the old fire guide you. I will remain here, until the last wound is sealed—or the sky falls."
Kael turned back to the fortress gates, the weight of new knowledge heavy on his shoulders.
They descended from Skyhold the next morning.
The soldiers greeted them with relief, but also wariness—Kael looked different now. Firelight danced in his eyes even under clouded skies, and the stone he carried seemed to whisper when touched.
As they broke camp, Kael gathered the officers and scouts.
"We move south by the Emberline Pass," he said. "There's a ruin buried in the sand. A prison. That's where we'll find the next bearer."
A grizzled scout spoke up. "Desert's cursed. Even the stars go missing out there."
Kael didn't flinch. "Then we'll find our way by fire."
They moved out in silence.
By midday, the snow gave way to wet stone. And by dusk, the first hints of heat curled through the wind. The world was changing, and Kael could feel the veil thinning with every mile they crossed.
That night, he dreamt of the steward again.
But this time, the man didn't wear a mask.
He stood atop a spire of black glass, the wind howling around him. Chains of blood circled his arms, trailing into the dark sky. And in his hand, he held the heart of a dying world—still beating.
"You run in circles, child of ash," the steward whispered. "But every fire dies."
Kael woke with fire on his skin and a name in his mouth.
"Amaris," he breathed.
The chained girl.
The next bearer.
The clock was ticking. And the fire had only just begun.