The wind that rolled over the charred fields of the Southern Marches carried more than smoke—it carried the weight of broken promises.
Auren stood at the edge of the ruined village, the burnt remains of homes still smoldering. The silence was louder than screams. The attack had come in the dead of night, and by dawn, nothing was left but ash. Not even the trees had survived.
He clenched his fists.
The oath he had made days ago now felt different. Before, it was a whisper to himself. Now, it was a shout in his bones.
"I won't let this land fall," he muttered, voice rough. "Not again."
Behind him, the survivors gathered. Tired. Hurt. Angry. Their eyes looked to him—not just as a boy with a Shard, but as a leader. Something he never thought he'd become.
Even Eryn, hardened and sharp, waited silently beside him. Her sword was drawn, but for once, she didn't speak. She let him lead.
He stepped forward.
"This wasn't an accident," he said loudly. "They're testing us. Pushing us to the edge. But we're not breaking."
A few murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd.
"We'll rebuild. We'll defend this place. And when the Crown's men come again, they'll find more than fire and ruin waiting."
A soft glow flickered from the mark on his chest—the Shard pulsing like a heartbeat.
That night, they held a quiet ceremony for the lost. No priests. No long speeches. Just ash on their foreheads and words said to the wind. Auren stood at the center, his oath made again beneath the stars.
In the quiet hours after, as the firelight flickered low, an old man approached.
"You're walking a hard path, boy," he said. "The kind that either makes kings or ghosts."
Auren didn't look away.
"Then let the ashes remember my name."