The descent felt like falling into a wound.
The world twisted around Kael as he passed the final threshold—a stone gate carved with the sigils of the Old Flame, buried beneath the Wyrmspire for centuries. No wind stirred here. No birds called. The air was thick with heat, and something older: anticipation.
Ezren had begged him not to go.
Seraphine had kissed him with trembling lips, her eyes haunted by a dream she hadn't yet shared.
But Kael had no choice.
He had to find Azareth—the demon king who claimed to be his true father. The one who whispered to him in fire and dream. The one whose blood pulsed in Kael's veins every time the flame rose.
He stepped into the gate.
And the world burned away.
Abyssfire
The Abyss was not made of stone or earth. It was something... older.
Reality melted. Time didn't work here. The sky was made of smoke-veins and half-light. Kael walked across bridges of memory, each step forcing a confrontation.
He saw his childhood again—his mother, Queen Maelira, tucking him in while howls echoed in the distance.
He saw Lucen, not yet king, watching him with thinly veiled disdain.
He saw his half-siblings jeering as they tied a stone to his ankle and pushed him into the lake at age six. He hadn't forgotten how long he'd stayed underwater. Or how no one had come to pull him out.
"You survived," a voice murmured. "Because you are mine."
Kael turned.
A figure stood before him on a dais of burning obsidian—cloaked in ash, eyes glowing like twin suns.
Azareth.
The King of the Fourth Flame.
The Demon King
Azareth did not move like a tyrant.
He moved like a father.
A father broken by loss.
"I should have raised you myself," he said. "Taught you how to wield the flame, not fear it."
Kael stared at him, every instinct pulling in opposite directions.
"You were never there."
"They took you from me. The wolves. The Council. Lucen."
"You're a demon," Kael said. "She must have known what that meant."
Azareth laughed softly. "Your mother loved you. Even if it meant hiding you among wolves. But you are not meant for a pack. You were born to command the fire."
He reached forward—not to strike, but to offer something.
A blade. Ancient. Carved of coalglass and heartmetal. Soulpyre.
Kael didn't touch it.
Azareth's voice dropped low.
"The Godflare is awakening. Lucen's ritual will rip the Veil apart. Not just your world will burn—all worlds. The Forgotten Ones will rise."
Kael swallowed.
"I've seen it," Azareth said. "So have you."
Kael had. In dreams. In sparks. In Seraphine's haunted eyes.
"You must embrace your lineage," Azareth said. "The demon blood. Not to destroy—but to defend."
The Flame's Test
Azareth raised a hand.
Fire leapt from the air and formed an image: Seraphine, bound in chains of ice, screaming as shadows clawed at her soul.
Ezren—dead. Torren—turned to stone. Mhyra's staff shattered.
Lucen stood over them all, draped in robes of shifting light, his voice a psalm of ruin.
Kael stumbled backward.
"No—"
"This is one of the futures," Azareth said, stepping close. "But it does not have to be."
Kael clenched his fists. "I won't become a monster to stop one."
Azareth didn't flinch.
"You are already feared," he said. "So be feared for the right reasons."
Then he stepped back, and Kael saw behind the throne… a mirror.
No glass. Just flame. A reflection of Kael—but with horns. Eyes of gold. Wings of obsidian fire.
And that Kael smiled.
Not cruelly. But knowingly.
"Choose," Azareth said. "Deny me, and the world burns. Embrace your birthright, and we stand a chance."
Kael stared at the mirror.
Then at Soulpyre.
And finally, at his own hands.
They began to glow—sigils he hadn't learned pulsing beneath the skin.
The Decision
Kael closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
"I'll fight Lucen," he said. "I'll stop the Godflare. But I won't rule beside you. I am not your heir."
Azareth's face didn't contort in rage.
It softened.
"So be it."
He stepped back, voice echoing with pride and sorrow.
"You are more like your mother than I hoped. She would have made a great queen."
Kael turned to leave.
But before he passed the flame-throne, Azareth spoke once more.
"When the stars fall and the gods awaken… if you falter, Kael… I will rise. And I will burn what you could not."
Back to the Surface
Kael burst from the Abyss like a meteor, landing on Wyrmspire soil just as the first sky-crack appeared.
A shriek tore through the heavens—not human. Not mortal.
Seraphine ran to him.
"You're back!"
He looked at her—eyes glowing faintly, sigils crawling like flame under his skin.
She stepped back, shocked.
"Kael… what did you do?"
He took her hand.
"What I had to."
From the east, Lucen's armies marched, veiled in storm and shadow. And above them, the Veil split open, revealing a sliver of the Old Gods waiting beyond.
The war for the realms had begun.
And Kael—Flamebreaker, Demonborn, and Prince of Ash—was ready.