The morning sky bled orange as Kael stood at the battlefield's edge, the wind pulling at his cloak, the scent of smoke already thick. The sea behind them churned as if it too could sense the storm.
Across the clearing, Nyxera stood tall upon her obsidian chariot, her new "champion" at her side—a man of molten fire and eyes like burning gold. His presence pulsed with twisted energy, something unnaturally familiar.
"He's like me," Seraphine whispered, her voice laced with dread. "But… wrong."
"He's you, corrupted," said Elarion grimly. "Created through stolen flame. She's crafted a counterfeit from the embers of your gift."
Kael narrowed his gaze. "And we're supposed to fear him?"
"You should," Nyxera's voice rang out over the field. "He is the product of all your discarded power, little Phoenix. The parts you feared. The wrath you suppressed. The flame you buried."
The corrupted twin stepped forward, his voice an eerie echo of Seraphine's tone—but devoid of warmth.
"I am Cindros. The Sovereign Flame."
Seraphine took a step forward, the ground beneath her feet fracturing as heat radiated off her skin. Her wings unfurled—half flame, half light.
"You may carry my fire," she said to him, "but it does not belong to you."
"Fire belongs to no one," Cindros replied. "It devours. And I will devour you."
They clashed.
The explosion rocked the cliffs, sending both armies reeling.
Fire against fire.
Seraphine spun, flame coiling from her fingertips as Cindros mirrored every move—until his flame turned black, searing through her defenses.
Kael surged forward, his sword drawn, but Nyxera blocked his path.
"Let them dance," she purred. "We have our own game to finish."
Meanwhile, in the Citadel, the sealed letter Kael had received lay open in Elarion's hands.
My son,
If you are reading this, then I am likely gone. But you must know the truth. Your father was not the man who sat upon that throne. He was a shadow given flesh, placed there to hide you. Your true father is a demon of the old blood—
His name is Askarion.
And he is still alive.
Elarion gripped the page, his breath caught.
Askarion.
The last of the original Flameborn. A demon prince exiled to the Abyss centuries ago.
"Kael," he whispered, "you were never meant to be just a king. You were born to be a conduit. A bridge between flame and shadow."
Back on the battlefield, Seraphine's breath came in ragged gasps. Her arms were scorched, her wings cracked. Cindros stalked toward her, his grin cruel.
"Yield," he said, raising a blade of pure ember.
"Never."
But before the blade could fall, Kael crashed into him, sword igniting with demonfire. The shock of Kael's flames sent Cindros tumbling back.
Kael turned to Seraphine, helping her to her feet.
"You're not alone."
"He's me, Kael," she said, trembling. "I don't know how to fight me."
"Then let me fight for you."
As Cindros rose again, Nyxera called out, furious.
"Enough games! Burn them both!"
Cindros flared—but before he could strike, the sky cracked open with black lightning.
A fissure tore through the horizon.
And from it stepped a figure.
Tall.
Antlered.
Eyes like an eclipse.
"You stole from my line, Empress," the figure said, voice echoing through every bone on the battlefield.
Kael froze. He knew that voice.
"Askarion," he whispered.
The demon lord looked at Kael—and smiled.
"My son."