The Hollow Citadel pulsed with new life. Once a tomb of shattered power, it now echoed with war drums and banners bearing Kael's sigil: a flaming crown rising from thorns. The five demon clans—Emberbound, Ironfang, Shadelords, Wyrmkin, and Smokeveil (now under new leadership)—prepared for the first true war since Ashar's reign fractured the kingdoms.
Kael stood atop the obsidian watchtower, armor gleaming with molten etchings, the Emberfang sheathed at his back.
"This isn't conquest," he told his gathered warlords. "It's reclamation. No more children stolen. No more lands enslaved. This is for every soul Ashar tried to silence."
Cheers erupted like firestorms.
But beneath the roar, Seraphine stirred.
She'd been unconscious for days, slipping in and out of fevered visions since the cursed blade's wound. But tonight, the dreams changed.
A woman made of flame stood over a burning field. Her hair was braided with stars, her eyes vast and endless.
"Child of ash and sun," the woman whispered. "Daughter of the spark I left behind."
Seraphine stood before her, ghostlike. "Who are you?"
"I am Ilirya, the First Flame. Mother of all fire-born. And your true ancestor."
The air shivered with truth.
"Your blood is the final key, Seraphine. The human kings buried your line, fearing what you could awaken. But Kael... he lit the path."
Flames curled around her hands, flickering blue-white.
"You are not mortal alone. You are Primordial Spark."
Then she awoke.
Soren was the first to see her stir. "Seraphine?"
She sat up sharply, eyes glowing faintly. "Get Kael."
When Kael arrived, he dropped to her bedside, brushing damp hair from her brow.
"You're burning up."
She shook her head. "No. I'm burning through."
She told him everything—the dream, Ilirya, the bloodline that tied her to fire older than the demon race itself.
"It wasn't just chance that they arranged our marriage, Kael," she said. "My family knew. They hid it. Buried me under shame so no one would ever know."
Kael's expression shifted from awe to realization.
"You're the flame Ashar couldn't see."
He took her hand. "And the one who will help me end him."
Word arrived that night. A survivor from the north staggered into the Hollow Citadel—barely alive.
"Ashar's remnants… they've built a stronghold in the Black Vale… corrupted even the skies… they've named themselves The Blightborn."
Kael clenched his jaw. "He's rebuilding."
Malric frowned. "He's drawing dark magic into himself. Something… deeper than demonfire. Something older."
Kael turned to the council. "We march before he becomes more than we can destroy."
That night, as soldiers lit torches and armor was checked and sharpened, Kael and Seraphine stood in the war tent alone.
"If this is our last night…" she began.
Kael silenced her with a gentle kiss.
"Then it will burn in memory forever."
She stepped close, her forehead against his.
"We're not fighting to survive anymore," she whispered. "We're fighting to reclaim."
And in the quiet that followed, the fire inside both of them whispered a promise not yet spoken.
With dawn, the united clans began their march toward the Black Vale.
Kael rode at the head, Emberfang blazing at his side, Seraphine riding beside him—her cloak now stitched with a sigil of her own: a rising phoenix wrapped in flame.
The sky above them darkened—not with clouds, but with ash and magic thick with corruption.
"Let him see us coming," Kael said. "Let him feel the flame."