The road from the Godforge was long, carved through cliffs and volcanic ash. Kael rode in silence, Ashmourne across his back, its hilt warm against his shoulder. The blade whispered, faint and flickering — not in words, but in memory. It pulsed with echoes of fire not yet used.
Lira kept watch from the front of their party. Marren followed close behind. No more scouts. No more riders. Just them.
They were alone in the dark.
Kael caught up beside Lira. "Where now?"
She didn't look back. "South. There's a ruined sky-keep at the edge of the Shardwoods. If we make it there, we can send a signal to the Ember Watch. Rally what's left."
"And if it's already fallen?"
Lira's jaw clenched. "Then we fight our way back to Ashfall."
Kael nodded.
The road narrowed.
The sky darkened unnaturally.
By nightfall, they reached a narrow ravine — sheer rock walls on either side, the moon hidden by thick clouds. The air smelled wrong. Clean. Cold.
Marren held up a hand. "Something's here."
Kael drew Ashmourne.
It didn't hum.
It growled.
Then came the first note.
Low. Melodic. A sound like mourning through frozen lungs.
The Pale Choir.
Kael spun — just as a figure dropped from the cliffs above, robe fluttering like a dying flame. It struck Marren with a frozen blade — a spear of silent ice — piercing her chest before she could scream.
Kael shouted.
Lira moved like lightning, her sword glowing with crimson flame. She cut down the attacker in one arc, his body crumbling to frost and shards.
But more descended.
Ten.
No—twenty.
Each singing. Each carrying weapons that gleamed with soul-ice and glacial steel.
The Choir surrounded them.
Kael backed into Lira's stance. "Too many."
"Then we die loud," she growled.
No, whispered the flame inside him. Now is your song.
He gripped Ashmourne tighter.
The blade ignited.
Not with wild fire.
With purpose.
Kael stepped forward.
The Choir converged.
He moved.
Ashmourne met frost with fire, severing limbs, turning robes to cinders. Each slash was guided by memory — Daryn's stance, Cynen's teachings, the Witch's flame. The blade danced, and the song of the Choir faltered.
But it wasn't enough.
Lira screamed — a spear had pierced her side.
Kael turned too late.
A priest loomed over her, mouth open in a voiceless hymn.
He raised Ashmourne—
And the priest stopped.
Burned away from within.
Marren, dying and bloodied, had dragged herself to the enemy's feet and lit her last ember-charge.
She smiled. "Told you I was stubborn."
Then she died.
The valley fell silent.
Kael collapsed to his knees beside Lira. Her wound burned, blackened from the frost.
He pressed a hand to her chest, calling the flame.
Please, he begged. Not again.
Ashmourne pulsed.
His hand glowed.
The fire entered her — not to burn, but to cauterize. To fight the cold. To preserve.
Lira gasped.
Alive.
When the last of the fire faded, Kael looked back at the battlefield.
Dozens dead.
Ashmourne dim in his hand.
But not silent.
Now the Choir knows your name, it whispered.
Now the war truly begins.