Chapter 9 — The Mark Beneath the Ash
The wind howled through the scorched ruins of Halbrecht Keep, carrying the faint scent of char and steel. The fires were long gone, but the land still breathed heat like a wounded beast. Seris stood at the edge of the battlements, her cloak whipping behind her, eyes cast toward the distant horizon where the Blood Hounds had vanished into the mist.
She felt Kael's presence before he spoke.
"You should rest," he said gently. "You haven't slept since the siege ended."
Seris didn't turn. "There's no rest for a Queen of ashes."
Kael moved beside her, his silver-threaded armor darkened with blood and smoke. "Not ashes. Embers. Something still burns within you, Seris. I see it."
He paused, then added with quiet gravity, "So do they."
Below, villagers and soldiers moved like ghosts through the rubble, searching for survivors, for food, for meaning. The weight of leadership pressed on her chest like a stone. She hadn't asked for the crown. She had taken it from her brother's corpse.
"Did you see the glyph beneath the Great Hall?" Seris asked, shifting the subject. Her voice was low, almost distant. "It was scorched into the stone. Like it had been… awakened."
Kael's gaze darkened. "I did. I hoped you hadn't."
"I have the mark on my palm now," Seris said, extending her hand. Faintly glowing lines, like veins of living fire, formed a symbol too old for memory. "It responded to me."
Kael reached for it, but stopped short of touching her skin. "That's the sigil of Vaeroth—the Forgotten Flame. It hasn't been seen since the Age of Collapse. Not even in the Lorekeepers' archives."
Seris finally turned to face him. "Then why is it on me?"
Kael hesitated. "Because you're not just the last heir of House Virellia. You're the last conduit. The old magic didn't die—it slept. And now, it's waking through you."
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Vaeroth, the Forgotten Flame
In ancient times, Vaeroth was said to be the final spark left by the dying gods—a sentient flame that once chose mortal vessels to carry divine fire. The Conduits were protectors, but also harbingers of change. Whenever the sigil reappeared, kingdoms fell… or rose anew.
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Seris felt the weight of that knowledge settle into her bones.
"I won't be a harbinger," she said. "I'll be a reckoning."
Kael bowed his head—not in submission, but in reverence. "Then let me be your blade."
She nodded once. There was no time for doubt.
Far across the northern wastes, a circle of black-cloaked seers stood in a windless cave, watching through flames of obsidian blue.
"She bears the mark," one rasped. "It has begun."
The Blood Hounds had delivered more than death. They had awakened the fire.
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