The Ashen Marches pulsed beneath Kael's boots, scorched earth glowing faintly with ember veins — as if the land itself remembered fire long buried.
The wind howled like a mourning beast as Kael stood at the head of his small warband. His blade, Veyrhaal, hummed low — a crimson line of steel barely restrained, aching to drink.
"South ridge," Darric said, peering through a broken spyglass. "Movement. Dozens. Not Black Host… something else."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Veilspawn?"
"No. Worse," Isryn murmured, her eyes glowing faintly as she splayed her fingers toward the storm-cloaked horizon. "Ash-Wardens. Leftovers from the Fireborn Clans. Twisted by Malrik's shadow."
From over the blackened hill came the thunder of war drums — and the rattling, hissing chant of broken tongues.
Dozens of figures emerged: armored giants with flame-charred helms, cloaks made of molten ash, and axes that burned like molten bone. Behind them, monstrous hounds wreathed in flickering soot bounded on four clawed limbs.
Kael stepped forward.
"Form up!" he called, the echo of command in his voice cutting across the wasteland like a whip crack. Pyra, her emberblade already unsheathed, took position at his right. Lyra and Eren flanked left, while Sarrin murmured incantations at the rear, his voice trembling with half-remembered prayers.
"Darric," Kael said, without turning. "You still remember how to cover an opening?"
The archer smirked. "Do pigs bleed red?"
Kael smirked in turn. "Good. Stay sharp."
The Ash-Wardens charged.
Kael didn't wait. With a single breath, he ignited.
Red lightning crackled along his limbs. His aura exploded outward — a corona of burning crimson flame enveloped his frame. He darted forward, faster than mortal eyes could follow.
"Crimson Fang."
He whispered the name, and Veyrhaal extended — lengthening in mid-swing as the blade screamed through the first enemy's armor. A gout of blackened fire and molten bone burst in his wake.
A hound leapt — he twisted and met it mid-air.
"Veilcleaver."
The blade shimmered with voidlight and fire, slashing in an arc that bisected the beast in a flash of flickering red and violet.
Beside him, Pyra danced with the precision of a flame-tempered swordmaster, cutting down two Wardens with her emberblade's whirling strikes.
Behind them, Isryn summoned a barrier of warped light, shielding Lyra as she loosed bolts of black flame into the enemy ranks.
Kael fought like a being reborn.
The enemies weren't mere fodder — they were corrupted warriors, fueled by lingering hatred and bound to Malrik's madness. But Kael's blade knew no hesitation.
"Why do you burn for them?" one Ash-Warden growled, swinging a molten greathammer.
Kael deflected the blow, sparks flying. "Because they still have hope."
With a roar, he plunged Veyrhaal through the Warden's chest — and unleashed "Bloodflare Requiem." A pillar of flame erupted, consuming everything within a dozen strides.
As the battlefield fell still, smoke curling skyward like ghosts whispering home, Kael looked to his companions.
"We move at dawn," he said. "That was a scouting force. The Oracle's trial is ahead. And the Fireborn will not let us pass untested."
Darric wiped blood from his blade. "I hope their trial involves less screaming."
Lyra smirked faintly. "You've never seen a true Fireborn trial, have you?"
Kael turned toward the horizon, where the broken ruins of the Ashen Spire loomed.
"I will pass it," he said.
"Not as a test."
He raised his blade.
"As a warning."