The gate groaned open like the throat of an ancient beast.
A wave of heat and whispers poured out, thick as smoke. The air behind it shimmered like a mirage, rippling with old, buried power. Kael stepped forward first, crimson cloak brushing the ash-laced stone. His companions followed without a word—Pyra's emberlight sword drawn, Darric's shield at the ready, Isryn's eyes flickering with unreadable thought, and Lyra nocking an arrow with her breath held.
The chamber beyond was colossal.
Dark obsidian walls stretched far into the shadowed dome above. Rivers of molten rock flowed through channels in the floor like glowing veins, crisscrossing into a radiant, burning sigil in the center. And there—seated atop a throne of blackened bone and emberglass—was the Oracle of Ash.
She was no mortal.
Her body flickered between solid form and emberdust, as if caught between flame and memory. Her eyes were twin suns—blinding, yet unblinking. Her voice rose without her lips moving.
"Crimson Mark… reborn. You walk paths burned into time itself."
Kael said nothing at first.
Then, he stepped forward. "You know who I am?"
"I know what you are," the Oracle answered, flames dancing in the hollow of her voice. "A vessel of endings. A rebuke to the First Flame. A fracture in the design of Sovereignty."
The companions bristled.
But Kael's hand fell to the hilt of his blade—not in threat, but in readiness.
"I didn't come for riddles."
The Oracle stood—if it could be called standing. She hovered inches above the ground, flame trailing in her wake.
"Then receive fire… not as destruction, but truth."
She raised her hand.
And Kael burned.
Not with pain—but with vision.
He stood amidst the wreckage of civilizations, as veiled titans fought above shattered skies. Thrones crumbled beneath stars torn asunder. The First Sovereign knelt in chains of his own making, whispering names that bled light.
Kael saw himself—crowned in flame—standing alone at the end of all things.
The world had bent. The world had bowed.
And yet, he saw something else too—
A hand reaching through the darkness.
Lyra's.
A shield raised.
Darric's.
A word whispered through fire.
Isryn's.
A flame beside his own.
Pyra's.
The vision snapped away, and Kael collapsed to one knee, chest heaving. His companions rushed to his side—but the Oracle lifted a hand.
"He sees it now. What waits at the edge. What you all must become, or fall."
Kael stood, slower this time.
"The future isn't written in flame," he said, gripping his sword. "I'll forge mine in blood, in battle, and in loyalty."
The Oracle let out something between a laugh and a sigh of wind.
"So be it, Sovereign That Should Not Be."
"The Fireborn Clans gather beyond the Emberfold."
"The war drums sound. The world begins to listen."
And then, the Oracle of Ash vanished—into smoke and embers that curled upward into nothingness.
In her place, lying on the scorched dais, was an ancient blade—not of fire or lightning, but obsidian folded in ash. Kael stepped forward and lifted it. The weapon was light. Too light.
But when his mark ignited, it pulsed—like a second heart.
Pyra stared. "That's no ordinary blade…"
Kael nodded. "No. It's a key. And war is the lock."
He turned to the others.
"Gather your strength. The Fireborn won't wait long."