The map was drawn in blood.
On the brittle parchment retrieved from the cracked pedestal beneath Lucen's statue, ancient lines spiderwebbed across forgotten lands. Symbols etched in a language older than Demonic whispered of a tomb that had never been meant to be found.
Arkan'dor—the Resting Flame.
Ezren studied the script by firelight as their camp smoldered beneath the frost-rimmed cliffs of Eldwyn Reach.
"This place was sealed before the Age of Splinters," he said. "Said to hold the bones of the First Demon King—Valkhar, the Wrathborn."
Veyra's eyes were hard. "No one goes to Arkan'dor. Not even the Hollowed dared enter."
Seraphine sat quietly, tending Kael's wounds from the fight with Lucen. She dabbed a salve on his shoulder, her touch gentle.
Kael's voice was low. "Then it's exactly where we're meant to go."
Ezren looked up sharply. "Why? What do you hope to find there?"
Kael's eyes burned like coals.
"The truth. And a weapon that can kill gods."
The journey to Arkan'dor took them through the Ashen Vale, a cursed land where the trees were petrified mid-scream and the wind whispered names long dead. Shadows crept across their path, watching with eyes that didn't blink.
On the third night, they camped by a ruined shrine, half-swallowed by black ivy.
Veyra stood watch while the others slept. Only Kael remained awake, staring into the flames, the map resting in his lap.
"Do you think he's right?" he asked, his voice raw. "That I was never meant to be born?"
Veyra glanced at him. "I think Lucen believes a great many things. That doesn't make them truth."
Kael shook his head. "But it explains too much. Why my stepfather loathed me. Why my siblings tried to destroy me. Why the Flame sings in my bones louder each day."
He looked up, jaw clenched.
"I'm not just a prince anymore. I'm a question that demands an answer."
They reached the ruins by dusk on the sixth day.
Arkan'dor loomed like a fang of obsidian rising from the broken earth. The gates were jagged slabs of blackstone carved with endless spirals, twisting inward toward a central seal: the eye of Valkhar, bleeding fire.
Ezren spoke softly. "If we open this, we can't go back."
Kael stepped forward, fingers brushing the seal.
The stone pulsed.
And without a word, it opened.
Inside, the air was thick with memory. Whispers drifted through the dust. Bones lined the corridor—massive, ancient, scorched with holy fire.
Seraphine clutched her bow tighter. "Something's watching us."
Kael nodded. "It's not a guardian."
"It's the tomb itself," Veyra added. "It remembers."
They descended into a chamber lit by green flame. At the center stood a stone coffin wrapped in chains.
Kael approached slowly.
The inscriptions etched around the lid told a tale of damnation.
"Here lies Valkhar, the Firstborn Flame.
Betrayer of Heaven. Father of Demons.
Bound so that fire might never rise again."
Ezren read the words aloud. "They feared him."
Kael laid his hand on the lid.
The moment he did, the chamber howled.
A wind, cold and unnatural, surged through the tomb. The green flame turned white.
And the coffin opened.
Inside was not a corpse—but a throne of flame.
And atop it sat not a skeleton, but a living shadow—bound in chains of celestial silver, eyes glowing with eternal fire.
The figure looked up.
"You are late, Kael of the Broken Blood."
Kael stumbled back. "You… know me?"
The figure stood, the chains rattling with power.
"I knew your father. And his father before him. I am Valkhar. Your great-grandfather."
Valkhar's voice was like molten stone.
"You seek truth. You seek power. But do you understand the price?"
Kael's fists tightened. "Lucen wants to use me to open the Veil. He says I'm the Lock."
Valkhar nodded. "True. Your blood bears the Seal of the Veil. But your flame is not lesser—it is hidden. Sealed by your mother to keep the Hollowed from finding you. To keep the world safe."
Kael's breath caught. "My mother… knew what I was?"
"She knew everything," Valkhar said. "And she loved you enough to silence the flame within her womb."
The chains around Valkhar began to crack, light seeping through.
"I have waited centuries for the heir who would choose to defy prophecy."
Kael stepped forward. "And I will. But I need a weapon."
Valkhar's eyes blazed.
"Then take mine."
The chains snapped.
Valkhar collapsed, consumed by fire—and in his place remained a blade:
A sword made of obsidian and flame, carved with runes of time and fate.
"Ashbreaker."
Seraphine whispered, stunned. "That blade was lost to history."
Ezren reached out but flinched. "It burns with celestial fire."
Kael stepped forward. The blade hovered in the air—and as he reached for it, it didn't burn.
It sang.
He grasped it—and flame ignited across his arms, spiraling to his heart.
His eyes glowed with all three flames—sea, earth, and now… origin.
Outside, the sky tore open.
Lightning bled upward.
And somewhere beyond the mountains, Lucen looked up from his throne and smiled.
"The final key has awakened."
Far below, in the dark of the tomb, Kael stood beneath a pillar of fire.
And for the first time, he felt whole.