CHAPTER XI
Ashkara, the Scar of the World
From the stillness of the Heart of Winter they departed, bearing with them both blessing and burden. The ancient frost had drawn the poison of dragon-cold from Edrin's veins and stilled the deeper wounds that would have claimed his life, but it had not restored his strength. He slept now in a healing trance, tended by Lysa's arts and the quiet, watchful presence of the frozen spire itself.
Yet the world beyond did not sleep.
Southward the ley-lines burned hot and restless, and through them came whispers of fire, war, and awakening powers. The path revealed by the Aesryndel led them out of the Ironspine Mountains and into lands long abandoned by crown and council alike. There, the air grew thin and dry, the snow gave way to stone, and the stone itself bore the scars of ancient flame.
They came at last to the edge of Ashkara.
It was a land that seemed less a place and more a wound that had never closed. The earth was black and red, twisted into jagged ridges and sunken valleys as though some colossal hand had once crushed and melted it, then left it to cool in agony. Rivers of hardened lava lay like dark, frozen serpents across the plain, and here and there, vents still breathed out thin streams of smoke and sulfurous heat.
The sky above Ashkara was never truly blue. It was stained with a perpetual haze of copper and ember, and at dusk it glowed as if lit from beneath by distant, hidden fires.
"This is where the world broke," Lysa said softly, standing upon a ridge of obsidian and gazing out over the scarred expanse. "In the Elder War, when Vorthraxx and Cryomor clashed for three days and nights without cease. Their fire and frost tore the land apart, and the very bones of the world were laid bare."
Alaric felt the mark upon his chest grow warm, not with the steady heat of the First Flame, but with a sharper, restless pulse, as though it sensed the nearness of something that resonated with its own origin.
"The Realm of Cinders," he murmured. "The Ancients said the Crown lies beyond ordinary paths. I think… I think this land is one of those paths."
They made camp at the edge of a ravine where heat still shimmered faintly from cracks in the rock. As night fell, the haze in the sky thinned, and the stars emerged, though even they seemed dimmed by the lingering glow of ancient fire beneath the earth.
It was then that the dreams came.
Alaric slept fitfully, and in his sleep he walked once more beneath a burning sky. He saw vast wings blot out the sun, heard the clash of thunder and flame, and felt the world shudder beneath the weight of titanic forms. At the center of the vision stood a throne of blackened star-metal, and upon it, the Crown of Ash—its surface glowing with veins of molten gold, its circlet etched with runes older than any kingdom.
A hand reached for it.
Not his.
It was clawed, vast, and wreathed in shadowed fire.
Not yet, a voice whispered through the vision. The chains still hold… but they weaken. And every oath that stirs the old magic hastens the hour.
Alaric awoke with a start, his heart racing, the mark upon his chest burning as though branded anew.
Outside the tent, Lysa was already awake, her eyes fixed upon the southern horizon. There, far beyond the broken ridges of Ashkara, a dull red glow pulsed slowly, like the heartbeat of some colossal, slumbering beast.
"The cult is not the only one moving," she said quietly. "The Elder Dragons feel the stirring of the Crown as keenly as you do. Some will seek it to bind Vorthraxx. Others… to free him."
Alaric joined her, wrapping his cloak tighter against the cool desert night. "And some will look to see which path I choose."
"Yes," Lysa replied. "That is the burden of the Covenant. You are not merely a seeker. You are a signal, a living question cast into the ancient world: will fire rule, or will it be ruled by wisdom?"
In the distance, thunder rolled—though the sky was clear. It came not from storm, but from the depths of the earth, as if something vast had turned in its sleep far below the scarred land.
Edrin stirred within the tent, and Alaric went to him, kneeling at his side.
"We are nearing the heart of Ashkara," Alaric said softly. "The place where the path to the Crown may open. Will you be strong enough to travel?"
Edrin's eyes opened, weary but clear. "I have walked through fire before, my son. And if the world truly stands upon the edge of another dragon war, then I will not lie in safety while you face it alone."
Alaric grasped his hand, feeling both the frailty of the man and the unbroken will beneath it.
Dawn rose over the Scar of the World in hues of red and gold, painting the jagged landscape in the colors of old battlefields and dying embers. And as the light touched the broken land, a distant roar echoed from the south—deep, resonant, and filled with ancient power.
The Elder Dragons were stirring in earnest.
And somewhere within the Realm of Cinders, the Crown of Ash waited, its runes awakening, its silent call reaching out along the ley-lines to those of fire, of frost, and of mortal blood who would shape the fate of the age to come.