The summons came at dawn.
A raven arrived bloodied—its wings scorched at the tips, a shard of silver embedded in its chest.
Kael pulled the message from its leg, brow furrowed.
> "It's from the edge of Thornevale. The outer hamlets haven't sent word in days."
Lyra took the parchment and read the jagged script, her fingers growing still.
> "They said the wind smells like death. No fire. No sound. Only… statues."
The word stuck in her chest like a blade.
Ash.
They rode hard.
Lyra, Kael, Thorne, and six Flameborn scouted the hills beneath the old trade road. Ashenya came too, silent and pale, her eyes glazed with something Lyra couldn't quite name—like her mind was both here and not.
The hills grew quieter the closer they drew to the village.
No birds. No wolves. Not even the hum of insects in the brush.
Just wind.
Cold and low and endless.
It howled between the trees like it carried the weight of a thousand forgotten names.
