The sky darkened at midday.
At first, they thought it a storm. But when Kael stepped outside the war tent and looked up, his breath caught.
The sun was gone.
An eclipse—unnatural, sudden, and reeking of arcane interference.
The wind stilled. The soldiers grew restless.
And then she arrived.
She did not walk through the gates of the rebel camp. She simply… appeared—one moment a shimmer of air, the next a woman standing atop the stone altar in the ruined courtyard.
She had silver hair that curled like smoke, and golden eyes that mirrored Kael's. Her armor shimmered black and red, woven in ancient sigils that pulsed faintly beneath the eclipse.
"Hello, little brother," she said softly. "You've grown… incandescent."
Kael took a step forward, Seraphine tense beside him.
"Who are you?"
"Zafira," she said, bowing low. "Daughter of Bel'varoth the Flameforger, heir to the Third Pyre of the Obsidian Wastes… and your sister."
They brought her into the war chamber, under heavy guard. Liam refused to lower his sword. Seraphine remained at Kael's side, her fingers brushing his wrist—subtle, grounding.
Zafira seemed unfazed by the suspicion.
"You were taken before you could walk," she explained, reclining on a stone bench like royalty. "Father thought you dead after the coup. But I never believed it. The moment the Flame roared through the mountains, I knew it was you."
Kael frowned. "You're saying our father is alive?"
"Yes. Imprisoned, but breathing. The real King of the Emberbloods—Bel'varoth Flameforger. You are his last hope, Kael. And mine."
Kael leaned forward.
"And what of my mother? What of the family I lost?"
Zafira's gaze didn't falter. "They loved you. But the werewolf king—your stepfather—was never meant to raise a child of fire. He feared what you would become."
Kael's jaw clenched. That much, he had always known.
"You're not lying," he said. "But you're hiding something."
Zafira smiled faintly. "Always the clever one. Fine. I brought a gift."
She pulled a blade from her side—long, black as obsidian, veins of fire rippling through it.
"This is Cindermourn. Forged in the core of the Broken Star. It kills not just flesh, but gods."
Gasps rippled around the room.
"Why would I need a god-killing blade?"
"Because, Kael," Zafira whispered, "Nyxera is no mere queen. She's a vessel. The gods are moving. And one of them wants you."
Kael reached for Cindermourn—and the moment his fingers closed around the hilt, pain surged through him. Not of the body, but of memory.
He saw fire and blood. A throne of bones. His mother screaming. A child crying in the dark.
He nearly dropped the blade.
But Seraphine stepped forward and placed her hand on his back.
"Breathe. You're here now."
He nodded, focusing on her voice. Her presence pulled him from the brink. The blade pulsed once in his grip… then stilled.
Zafira raised an eyebrow.
"You really are chosen."
Later, under the cover of dusk, Zafira stood at the edge of the camp, watching the eclipse fade.
Kael joined her, silent for a long while.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why come for me now, after all these years?"
Zafira's smile faded. "Because the gods have started whispering your name. And when gods take interest in mortals, things die."
"And you care about that?"
"I care about what's left of our bloodline. And I care about you… more than you know."
She handed him a sealed letter.
"When you're ready to learn the truth about your birth—read this. But be warned: once you do, everything you believe about your past will burn."
Kael stared at the letter long after she left.
And in the shadows… a pair of red eyes watched them both.
In a temple beyond time, where the air burned blue and the sky bled stars, Nyxera knelt before a being cloaked in nothingness.
"He has the blade," she whispered.
"Good," said the void.
"Shall I strike now?"
The god's voice was like rusted chains scraping against bone.
"No. Let him come to us. Let him bring the blade. The key must choose the lock."
Nyxera bowed.
"As you command, Father of Ruin."