The Redjaw Mountains rose like jagged teeth from the horizon, blood-streaked by centuries of iron-
rich dust and storm-scoured peaks. Clouds clung to the summits like wounded ghosts, curling
around stone with slow, choking motion. Wind howled through the ridgelines in long moaning waves.
Torian walked into it without pause.
Skarn moved beside him, coat matted with dried ash and melted snow. He barely looked at the
terrain anymore. His eyes were elsewhere—always scanning, listening.
They had been climbing steadily for two days, following a tug in the spiral mark on Torian's palm
that now seemed more like a compass than a brand. It pulled east, then sharply north, narrowing
their path into a deep gorge flanked by pillars of stone shaped like crumbling towers.
At the third cairn carved with twin spirals, Skarn stopped.
Torian turned. "You smell them?"
Skarn gave a short grunt and padded ahead.
The walls of the gorge closed tighter. On either side, Torian saw signs of old battle: arrowheads
wedged between rocks, scorch-marks on cliff faces, and rusted swords driven into the earth like
forgotten warnings.
Then the outpost emerged from the fog.
It was built into the stone itself, a half-circle of black iron gates and red masonry barely
distinguishable from the mountain wall. Towers rose from within—one broken at the top, the others
standing like squat teeth behind battlements carved with flame motifs.
As they approached, a loud clang echoed across the gorge.
A bell. Low and deliberate.
The gate creaked open, revealing a score of warriors in blackened armor, helms marked with spirals
—crossed out. They bore flame-forged spears and double-headed axes etched with old runes. One
stepped forward, taller than the rest, with a burn scar stretching from jaw to temple. His eyes were
steel-gray. His voice rasped."You wear the spiral. Step forward."
Torian didn't hesitate.
"I'm not here to claim command," he said. "I came because the world is burning, and
your blades are rusting in a hole."
A slow silence followed.
The man tilted his head.
"And what would you know of fire, boy?"
Torian raised his palm.
The spiral glowed.
The warriors shifted.
A few murmured. One dropped his spear slightly. The leader's eyes narrowed.
"Vaelor," he said, touching his chest with a closed fist.
"Torian."
"If that name means anything, you'll prove it."
Vaelor turned and gestured.
Two warriors pulled the gates wider.
"Trial by Oathsteel. You enter the arena at dusk."
⸻
The Iron Hold was older than Torian expected.
It wasn't just a fortress. It was a sanctuary of failure.He saw the signs everywhere—banners burned and folded; statues of flame-bearers
shattered or turned inward to face walls; scrolls stored behind rusted locks, too
shamed to burn and too sacred to read.
They were keepers of legacy who no longer believed in it.
Vaelor gave him a cell to rest—spartan, but clean. A basin of water. A simple bench.
Skarn was allowed to stay beside him under strict guard.
Dusk came fast.
The arena wasn't for sport. It was a ritual ring—circular, sunken, surrounded by jagged
iron posts where warriors once took oaths before flame-bearers.
Now, they watched in silence.
Vaelor stepped into the ring shirtless, bearing a curved blade dulled at the edge but
heavy with intent. His chest bore brands—three spirals crossed by jagged scars. His
left shoulder glowed faintly from old ember burns.
Torian entered without armor.
Only his sword. His spiral.
And his will.
The spiral pulsed once as his feet touched the ring.
Ishren—the blind elder who led the Pact—spoke from above.
"This duel is not for victory. It is for truth. If either man seeks death, he will find it. If he
seeks honor, he will leave it in the dust."
The bell rang.
Vaelor struck first.Torian barely deflected the swing. The strength behind it was brutal, honed by years of
rage and training. They circled, blades clashing, neither speaking.
Torian didn't use flame.
Not at first.
He wanted them to see him, not just the ember.
He parried, ducked, swept Vaelor's legs once—but the veteran rolled back to his feet
and lunged again. Sweat ran down both their faces. The onlookers didn't cheer. They
watched like judges, not comrades.
Then Vaelor swept his blade low—catching Torian's side and drawing blood. Torian
winced but held his stance.
"You won't win with tricks," Vaelor growled. "The flame devours weakness."
Torian responded by extending his hand.
The spiral lit up.
A wave of heat rippled out—not fire, but pressure.
It pushed Vaelor back just long enough for Torian to step forward, disarm him, and
press his blade to the man's throat.
He didn't cut.
He didn't speak.
He stepped back and dropped the sword.
"I didn't come to burn," Torian said. "I came to build."
Vaelor stared at him—long, hard, breathing like a man who wanted to spit fire and
couldn't find the breath.Then he dropped to one knee.
Not in surrender.
In acknowledgment.
⸻
Later that night, Torian stood in the Hold's inner library.
Ishren sat across from him—blind eyes milky white, his fingers tracing an old blade as if
reading memory through steel.
"We were protectors once," Ishren said. "Guardians of those who bore the ember.
When it twisted… many of us followed it down."
"I know," Torian replied.
"Then you know why we hid. Why we chose silence over service."
"I do," Torian said. "But the Hollow Flame isn't hiding anymore. He's reaching."
Ishren nodded slowly.
"And you're asking us to pick up blades again."
"No," Torian said. "I'm telling you that whether you do or not, the fire will come for you.
This time, you either carry it—or burn beneath it."
Ishren was silent a long time.
Then he reached into a scroll box and pulled out a faded banner.
A spiral—unbroken.
Still whole.
He handed it to Torian."Then we rise."
⸻
The next morning, the Iron Hold came alive.
Blacksmiths relit forges. Warriors cleaned rusted blades. Ancient scrolls were read
aloud again for the first time in decades.
Skarn stood atop the walls, overlooking the gorge.
Torian joined him.
Below, Vaelor directed drills. Ishren walked among the soldiers with a cane, nodding
once at Torian as he passed.
"They're not many," Torian said. "But they're enough to start."
Skarn grunted.
The spiral in Torian's hand pulsed.
The ember was pleased.
And somewhere in the dark beyond the mountains…
So was something else.