The wind howled over the barren cliffs of the Crying Hills, carrying with it the sound of wailing that gave the place its name. A legend said the hills wept for every soul lost in the old war—those forgotten in unmarked graves, cursed to whisper their sorrows into the wind for eternity.
Kael dismounted, boots crunching over brittle bones and ancient ash. Seraphine followed silently, the Phoenix Tear glowing faintly beneath her cloak. Behind them, a small contingent of elite scouts from Emberhold fanned out in formation, weapons drawn but eyes wary.
The hills were unnaturally cold, as if something far older than winter still clung to the land.
"The Vault of Silence," Seraphine murmured, eyes fixed on the massive stone arch embedded in the hillside. "That's it."
A seal of obsidian had once covered the mouth of the arch, etched with celestial runes and infernal warnings. Now, it lay in shattered pieces at their feet.
Kael moved closer. His pulse quickened.
"This wasn't broken from outside," he said, kneeling beside the fragments. "It was broken from within."
A low hum throbbed in the air—like a heartbeat, ancient and slow.
Torch in hand, Kael led the way down the tunnel carved into the hillside. The walls pulsed with veins of glowing silver. As they descended, the air grew thicker, heavy with old magic. The scent of sulfur and dust filled their lungs.
"Do you feel that?" Seraphine whispered.
Kael nodded grimly. "Something woke up."
They reached the base of the Vault—a cavernous chamber lined with empty sarcophagi. Dozens of them. Open. Their lids shattered or pushed aside. The carvings on each bore a name in the old tongue of demons, names erased by time or clawed away.
But one sarcophagus remained sealed. Its runes were untouched. A single symbol burned brightly on its lid: a winged eye surrounded by broken chains.
"That's the Keeper's mark," Seraphine whispered.
Kael stepped forward cautiously. As he touched the lid, a voice echoed in his mind—low, cold, and laced with ancient power.
"Kael Thorne… flame-born… you are too late."
Near the sealed tomb lay a broken pedestal with a crystal embedded in its center. A memory stone. Kael placed his palm against it, and the room vanished in a flash of white.
In the vision, he saw the past:
A chamber of chained gods—demonic figures kneeling in defeat, their eyes hollow, their voices silent.
A young demon prince, defiant and brilliant, standing before the gods.
"You cannot cage what was born of ruin," he said.
And a voice—soft, sad, familiar.
"Kael... my son... you must remember..."
The vision shifted. The young prince fell into darkness, his memories splintered, his blood sealed with enchantments, cast into another realm.
Kael gasped as the vision faded, stumbling backward.
Seraphine caught him. "What did you see?"
"My past," he said, breathless. "But not this life… Another. A sealed life."
As they emerged from the Vault, Kael turned to Seraphine.
"I wasn't just born in Emberhold," he said slowly. "I was… placed there. Hidden."
Seraphine's voice was steady, but her eyes were wide. "By who?"
"My real father. A demon king named Aeshren. The one the celestial pantheon feared enough to shatter time."
The wind howled louder, as if the hills themselves mourned this truth.
That night, back at their encampment near the Crying Hills, a messenger arrived from the south. His face was pale, his voice trembling.
"Three cities burned to the ground. No survivors. Black fire and silver smoke."
Kael stepped forward. "What did they say… before the fire?"
The man swallowed. "Only this: He walks again. The Hollow Flame returns."