The sky was no longer blue.
Overhead, a strange shimmer rippled like heat on glass—a fracture where the Veil had begun to tear. Birds no longer flew beneath it. Magic twisted unnaturally. The world was beginning to remember the Old Fire, and with it, the hunger of gods long buried.
Kael leaned against the edge of a jagged cliff, watching the storm swirl far above the Wyrmspire Wastes.
Seraphine came up beside him, wind tugging her hair loose.
"This place is cursed," she said.
"So are we," Kael replied. "Let's hope that's enough."
The Wyrmspire Wastes were once the seat of a noble kingdom. Now, they were ruled by Ashlords, exiles, and horrors that didn't belong to any plane. It was said that even demons feared to walk its cracked red earth.
Kael had one name, passed to him by Mhyra before they left the Sisterhood:
Torren the Hollow
A half-dragon warlord.
Branded a traitor.
Banished for crimes so vile no scroll dared name them.
But Kael knew monsters. He had become one, once.
And he knew: monsters followed strength. Not crowns.
Their party rode in silence. Ezren was still mourning Veyra. Seraphine carried her sword differently now—defensively. She rarely smiled.
They reached Scourgemire Keep, a fortress carved into the ribcage of a fallen god-beast, where the air stank of ash and blood.
Torren waited atop a dais of bone, armored in obsidian scale. His eyes glowed with molten light.
"You seek an alliance," he growled, spitting to the floor. "With me?"
Kael didn't bow. Didn't speak. He simply stepped forward and drew Ashbreaker.
The flames curled around him like a storm.
"Yes," Kael said. "But I won't beg."
A beat of silence.
Then Torren laughed, a deep, terrible sound.
"Good," he said. "Because I only follow those who can beat me."
The Trial of Bone
Torren demanded blood.
Kael gave it.
They fought in a pit surrounded by warlocks, sirens, and half-turned beasts. Every blow from Torren was like a landslide. His claws tore open the air. His wings sent Kael flying into stone.
But Kael burned brighter.
His fire wasn't just flame. It was will—fused from prophecy, love, and pain.
As Torren roared, Kael met him head-on—flames wrapping around Ashbreaker until the blade howled with ancient wrath. He dodged under a swipe and drove the sword deep into the warlord's side, twisting.
Torren roared—but then… he knelt.
"I yield," he said. "Fire has not died in the bloodline after all."
And the Wyrmspire howled with new allegiance.
That night, the outcasts of the Wastes pledged loyalty—not to a crown, but to Kael Flamebreaker. Monsters and men alike. A new kind of army. One born not of bloodlines, but resilience.
Seraphine watched from a balcony, her thoughts elsewhere.
She traced a symbol on her palm—one she'd seen in her visions again and again: a broken sun cradled in flame.
Kael joined her, bruised but alive.
"We're building something real," he said.
Seraphine didn't look at him.
"But what if it's the wrong thing?"
He frowned.
She turned to him, voice trembling.
"I saw a future where we win. And a future where you become… like Lucen."
Kael took her hand.
"Then we change the ending."
But Seraphine whispered, more to herself than him:
"What if I'm the one who ends you?"
That night, as Kael slept, the dream returned.
Only this time… it wasn't a dream.
He stood before a great obsidian throne in a void of stars. Chains floated in the air like roots torn from the cosmos.
And on the throne sat a demon cloaked in shadow, crowned in flame, his face a perfect mirror of Kael's—older, crueler, timeless.
"Son," the figure said.
Kael couldn't speak.
"You were taken from us," the demon said, rising. "Hidden in a wolf's womb. But your blood remembers."
Kael staggered back.
"Who are you?"
"I am Azareth," the demon said. "King of the Fourth Flame. Your father."
Kael froze.
"My father was Lucen."
"No," Azareth said, eyes narrowing. "Lucen is a thief. A usurper. He stole you from us, and poisoned your fire with lies."
He stepped forward.
"The flame in you is not meant to serve prophecy. It is meant to rule. Come home, my son. The demonblood awakens."
Kael woke gasping.
His hands burned—sigils glowing beneath the skin.
Seraphine rushed in. "Kael?! What happened?"
He looked at her with eyes that shimmered gold-red.
"I saw him," he whispered.
"My real father. He's not dead. And he's calling me home."
Seraphine stepped back.
"Then the last veil… is falling."
Far to the east, Lucen stood atop a tower of flame, eyes fixed on the same sky.
He whispered one word.
"Azareth."
And behind him, a god screamed.