Chapter 13 — Ash-Sworn
The violet comet hadn't faded. It hung in the sky for three full nights.
Priests in the southern temples called it an omen. In the courts of Falcrest, kings debated omens and war. But in the broken bones of Halbrecht Keep, Seris stood beneath it in silence.
The sigil on her palm throbbed like a second heartbeat.
"They know," she said, voice hollow.
Kael leaned against the shattered rampart beside her. "Who?"
"Everyone. The ones who mark stars. The ones who whisper through bones. They felt it. Whatever was asleep… it's waking."
She didn't speak of the dreams—the fire-covered throne, the chains, the voice that asked her "Do you remember the pact?" She hadn't told Kael she answered yes.
---
That Same Night — In the Deepnorth Wastes
A cloaked rider galloped across tundra, furs soaked in snow and blood. In his satchel, a carved shard of obsidian pulsed with red light.
He didn't stop until he reached the frozen ruin of Vael'Korath, once a city of seers and scholars, now swallowed by ice.
In the heart of the ruin, a circle of fireless torches burned blue.
Nine figures stood there. Unmoving.
"The Ash-Sworn have returned," he gasped, kneeling. "She bears the mark."
Silence.
Then one of the robed ancients lifted its head.
"The pact is broken," the figure rasped. "And the Harbinger has risen."
Another spoke, voice hollow: "If she awakens the Weeping Flame, this world will not survive."
A third hissed, "Then she must be guided… or destroyed."
---
Halbrecht Keep — Below the Archives
Seris wandered the undercroft of the keep—an ancient place of forgotten lore and half-burned scrolls. What remained was barely legible, but enough.
She unrolled a cracked parchment depicting a sigil almost identical to hers.
"Vaeroth," she murmured. "The First Flame."
The scroll whispered madness—Vaeroth, a being born from flame and sorrow, bound by a pact to protect a shattered kingdom. But the price had been steep.
"Three bloodlines extinguished," she read aloud. "The Crown scorched. The oath sealed in ash."
Kael appeared behind her. "You're saying this thing in you… it's a god?"
Seris turned to him, something cold in her eyes.
"No," she said. "It's a memory… too old to die."
---
North of the Broken Vale
Drennir stood before a pyre of twisted iron, whispering to the wind. Around him, the Blood Hounds knelt in a circle, their weapons drawn.
"Let the old things tremble," he intoned. "Let her power grow. We will test her strength—not to break her…"
He turned, revealing a cruel smile.
"But to forge her in blood."