Kael stood at the gates of the castle—his kingdom, reclaimed by blood and fire—now trembling on the brink of another war.
Seraphine rode beside him, her cloak billowing like a stormcloud. She glanced sideways at him, catching the haunted look in his eyes.
"Are you ready?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. The Mirror of Binding still glowed faintly beneath his collarbone, its cracks spiderwebbed like frost on glass.
"No," he said. "But I don't have a choice."
They rode toward the mountains—toward the Silver Path, the route Queen Veyla had mentioned in her final letter. It wound through the Frostfang Peaks, into territory long abandoned, where demon kind had once thrived in secret halls and molten keeps.
Kael's destination: the Sanctum of Embers, where he hoped his brothers still lived.
Two days into their journey, the weather turned brutal.
Snow lashed the cliffs as the pair climbed higher into the Frostfangs. Cold wind tore at their cloaks and threatened to pull their horses into the abyss below.
Kael's power fought to warm them, but the more he drew on it, the more the Mirror screamed.
Each flare of flame came with a price: a piece of himself.
Seraphine saw it happening.
At night, she curled beside him beneath enchanted furs and whispered ancient human lullabies, hoping to ease his pain.
He never told her how much he needed it.
On the third night, they reached a stone bridge guarded by a frozen sentinel—an ancient warden of the path.
It stirred as they approached.
"Demon heir," it growled, voice like grinding ice. "Prove your flame."
Kael stepped forward, fire swirling around his arms.
"I don't have time for riddles."
The sentinel raised its spear, and Kael prepared to fight—but Seraphine stepped in front of him.
"You're proving your flame wrong," she whispered. "Don't use rage. Use control."
Kael clenched his fists—and instead of erupting, he breathed.
Fire danced in his palm, gentle as a sunrise.
The sentinel bowed.
"You may pass."
Far below, in the ruins of the Shadow Keep, Ashar stood before what remained of Aven's frozen body.
He touched the boy's chest with a clawed hand.
The ice melted instantly.
"Foolish child," he murmured. "You were meant to bring him home, not break the Mirror."
Behind him, a cloaked figure knelt. "Shall I summon the Nightborn?"
Ashar's eyes burned like black suns.
"No. Not yet. Let him reach his brothers. Let him believe they'll save him."
He smiled—a terrible, elegant thing.
"Then I will take everything."
On the sixth night, Kael awoke in a cold sweat.
His dreams were changing—memories growing sharper, clearer. He remembered holding a newborn wrapped in black silk. A name whispered in the dream: Lucan.
A brother?
He rolled over and found Seraphine already awake, staring at the flames.
She looked… distant.
"You've been dreaming," she said before he could speak.
He nodded. "You too?"
She hesitated.
Then: "I see a woman in white. A crown of petals. She calls me little flame. I think she's my ancestor. And she's warning me."
Kael frowned. "About what?"
"Me."
Seraphine turned to him, her eyes suddenly glassy.
"She said you'll have to choose, Kael. Me or your flame. One will burn away the other."
Kael's heart twisted.
He reached out, gently brushing her cheek.
"Then I'll burn fate itself to keep you."
At last, on the ninth day, the mountains parted to reveal a hidden valley—lush with glowing trees, volcanic springs, and obsidian structures half-sunken into the earth.
They had reached the Sanctum of Embers.
Kael dismounted slowly, flame tingling under his skin.
"They're here," he whispered. "I can feel them."
From the shadows emerged three figures—horned, tall, each bearing a shard of the same ember-born power Kael wielded.
The eldest stepped forward, dark-skinned with glowing orange eyes. His voice was calm, yet heavy with grief.
"Brother," he said. "We thought you were dead."
Kael swallowed.
"So did I."