The silence after the shard's song faded was unnatural—dense, suffocating. Kaelen's fingers trembled around the crystal, now dark and cold in his grasp. It no longer pulsed like the first. Instead, it radiated a quiet pressure, like something vast holding its breath.
"Kaelen," Elara said softly, reaching for him. "Put it away."
He nodded numbly, slipping the shard into the silver case Arin had reinforced with sealing glyphs. The moment it clicked shut, the air eased, and the others took their first full breaths in minutes.
"That one felt… older," Ariana whispered. "Wrong."
Milo muttered, "I preferred the giant statue that tried to flay our minds."
"We're lucky it let us pass," Arin added, inspecting the walls. "Whatever it showed us, it judged us worthy—or at least not offensive."
Thorne flexed his bruised shoulder. "Or too pitiful to bother with."
Kaelen's voice was quiet. "We're being watched. Not just here. Since we touched the first shard."
Elara gave him a sharp look. "You felt it too?"
He nodded.
It wasn't paranoia. It was certainty.
They left Viremoor under a sky that hadn't changed. The same locked storm still churned silently overhead, and even the shadows on the ground moved unnaturally. The group made camp just outside the city's edge, where Ariana blessed the perimeter with protective vines and Arin laid down arcane tripwires.
As dusk bled into night, Kaelen sat apart, staring at the flames.
Elara joined him.
"Something's different since you touched it," she said.
"It spoke," Kaelen whispered. "Or something did. It knew me."
"What did it say?"
Kaelen hesitated. Then: "That the path opens. That the Black Flame stirs."
Elara's brows furrowed. "The Black Flame… that's not in any of the known prophecies."
"I think it's older than prophecy," Kaelen said. "And I think Loren's trying to wake it."
Elara was silent for a moment, then looked toward the shard case resting on Arin's bag. "He's not just after power. He wants transformation."
Kaelen clenched his fists. "He wants to burn the world down and make something else from the ash."
The next morning, they received an urgent missive.
A bird—one of the silver-feathered messengers from Vathros Keep, the central stronghold of the Southern Alliance—landed on Celine's shoulder, its eyes glowing faintly blue. She unrolled the parchment with practiced fingers and read quickly.
"Kaelen," she said. "You need to see this."
He took it and scanned the contents. His face darkened with every line.
"What is it?" Thorne asked.
Kaelen read aloud:
'Duskwatch has moved. Loren's forces have seized Emberlight Canyon. Reports confirm sighting of summoned shades. Casualties high. Lady Sylvaine fallen. War is no longer looming—it has begun.'
The parchment fluttered from his fingers.
Elara stood. "If he's taken Emberlight, he's closing in on the third shard. That canyon leads straight into the Obsidian Spire."
"And if he gets there first…" Arin began.
"We won't let him," Kaelen said firmly, fire igniting in his voice. "We move now. We warn the Alliance. And we stop him."
"But you're not ready," Elara said gently. "None of us are."
Kaelen turned to face them all. "Then we get ready—fast."
The journey to Vathros Keep took three days, and each one tested their endurance.
They passed fields turned to glass from magical strikes, burned-out caravans reeking of shadow, and stone monoliths engraved with the mark of Loren's army: a black sun cradled by a burning crescent.
Worse, Kaelen's dreams returned.
Each night he saw fragments of a world consumed by shadowfire.
Cities dissolved. Oceans inverted. Skies cracked like porcelain.
And always, in the heart of the ruin, stood Loren, cloaked in living flame, his eyes like twin eclipses.
"You are the door," he whispered to Kaelen in one dream. "And I am the key."
When Kaelen awoke, his back burned.
Not with pain—but with a mark.
A brand in the shape of the shard, etched just beneath his shoulder blade.
Ariana examined it with a mix of fear and fascination. "It's like it's… alive. The magic is active, but dormant."
Celine frowned. "Is it a curse?"
Elara shook her head. "No. It's a link."
"To what?" Milo asked.
Kaelen's voice was low. "To whatever the Black Flame really is."
They reached Vathros at dusk.
The fortress was a marvel—built on the spine of a cliff, its towers carved from obsidian and stone, connected by bridges that defied physics. War banners hung limp in the wind. The gates were open.
Too open.
"No guards," Thorne muttered. "Bad sign."
They entered cautiously, weapons drawn.
And found the aftermath of a massacre.
Bodies lay scattered across the stone. Soldiers. Mages. Even the stewards of the Flame Archive.
All of them bore the same sign: blackened veins, eyes glazed with shadow, and the stench of corrupted magic.
Ariana's hand trembled. "Lifesteal magic. High-level. It wasn't just an attack—it was a feeding."
Kaelen moved through the halls until they reached the great war chamber.
There, still slumped in her chair, was Lady Sylvaine—a blade through her heart, and her eyes wide in horror.
But in her other hand… she held a sealed scroll.
Kaelen approached slowly and took it.
The seal bore the crest of the Twilight Pact—the ancient council sworn to protect the balance of Vaeloriax.
He opened it.
'The Black Flame is not Loren's creation. He is its vessel. The shards are not locks—they are veins. The third shard lies beneath the Obsidian Spire. You must not let him complete the pulse.'
He read it twice.
Then turned to the others.
"We have to get there. Now."
Elara stepped forward. "Even if it's a trap?"
He met her eyes. "Especially if it is."