I should have smelled it earlier—ash, faint and bitter.
Not the kind born of hearth or honor,
but the sickly smoke of something scorched before its time.
It clung to the wind, dry and sour,
threading itself into the edges of my mind like an old scar reopened.
The trees around us stood too still.
Their branches, usually whispering in the breath of the Hollow, were silent.
No birds called. No beasts stirred.
I raised my fist.
The caravan halted like a single breath held tight in a chest.
The creak of wagon wheels faded. Weapons slid from sheathes in the hush before thunder.
"Circle the wagons. Defensive formation," I said, voice steady but low.
"Lyra, right ridge. Rin, with me."
I moved without waiting, hand on the hilt of my blade, eyes on the treeline.
The path through Flamegrove Hollow had once been vibrant with petals and sunlight,
the trees humming with old song.
Now their bark cracked like brittle bone, and the wind tasted like endings.
Something's wrong. Something waits.
Your knees press into the loam behind the lead wagon.
The blade in your hand isn't just steel—it's certainty.
The hilt is worn smooth by years of memory.
You exhale, slow and measured.
Then: a shimmer—barely a blink—a displacement of air near the old birch tree,
where the light folds too neatly.
Ambush.
Two fingers rise in the air.
A silent signal. Others shift in response.
The scream of the sky follows: arrows rain down like iron feathers, whistling through the air.
You throw your weight sideways, dragging the young healer beside you to the dirt as a shaft
buries itself in the wood behind him with a shuddering thunk.
You roll, rise, blade ready.
From the brush, a cloaked figure lunges. You don't think. You remember.
You pivot on instinct—slash!—your dagger arcs across his thigh.
He cries out, stumbles.
You spin around, bring your forearm up to deflect the next attacker's blow.
Steel sparks against your guard. You duck low, drive your elbow into his chin,
and feel the mask give way under the strike.
He collapses in a heap of breath and blood.
Another shadow steps into view—but your blade is already moving.
Each breath is memory. Each movement is fire reborn.
They are testing you. Probing for softness.
But you were shaped by the Hollow.
You are flame in flesh, and you burn brighter when surrounded.
Lyra vaulted over a splintered tree root, her bloomsteel sword thrumming with heat.
She moved like wind through glass—fluid, glinting, deadly.
Her steps barely touched the moss as she drove herself toward the ridge,
where the enemy crept in silence.
Three of them—cloaked, fast, masks smudged with dream-resin.
They underestimated her.
The first came with a reckless upward strike.
She sidestepped, caught the blow with her blade's edge, and redirected it into a tight arc.
Her counterstrike came low—a diagonal slash across his shoulder.
He twisted, eyes wide, and fell to his knees.
The second swung wild.
She ducked beneath his blade, rolled forward, and came up behind him.
Her foot swept out in a precise crescent, knocking him off balance.
He fell hard, and her hilt crashed into his temple before he could rise.
The third saw his chance and charged.
She parried left, then twisted inward—shoulder to his chest—forcing him off balance.
Her blade pierced just below his ribs, fast and deep.
He gasped, blood spattering the petals below.
Around her, ward-light flickered in and out of bloom. The Spiral Tree's blossoms—torn and burning—floated across the battlefield like shattered memories.
Her eyes lifted. Kaien carved through enemies with a brutal rhythm,
each strike a story etched in motion.
Rin stood just beyond, glyphs burning in the air above his palms like constellations made flesh.
No—this wasn't an ambush.
This was a declaration.
The world narrows when I work glyphs—every breath,
every twitch of my fingers is the difference between life and ruin.
I drew a spiral in the air—tight, smooth, deliberate. The lines shimmered green-gold, pulsing in rhythm with the thrum of the Hollow. A javelin whistled from the treetops.
I whispered to the ward: Now.
The barrier ignited just before impact. The javelin shattered in a burst of flame and light.
I staggered back, the blow echoing through my limbs. My fingers trembled.
The enemy was clever this time. I could feel them mimicking our wards, weaving stolen memories into false protections. Trying to turn our defense into their dagger.
I dropped to one knee, pressing my palm into the soil. Bark, bone, and blood—these are the truths that power the Hollow's flame.
"Tree of flame," I whispered, voice raw,
"remember me. Bloom me into blade."
The ground answered with a hum.
From my palm, spiraling vines of ward-light erupted, coiling like serpents.
They latched to the feet of advancing foes, wrapping their legs in living sigils.
Some fell. Others screamed.
The ritual snapped like a lashing whip, severing enemy bindings.
I opened my eyes. The Spiral Tree was watching. And it remembered.
You thought this would be simple.
Your orders were clear—test the Hollow's defenses, disrupt their caravans, sow doubt.
You expected desperate defenders, ragged from exile, barely holding rites and stories together.
Instead, you found gods in mortal shape.
You crouch behind a fallen branch, clutching your arm where a glyph ignited your skin.
Smoke rises from your shoulder. Blood darkens your cloak.
Around you, your comrades fall—blades crashing, spells shattering.
The Spiral warriors don't fight like soldiers. They fight like flame learning to walk.
Kaien's blade moves like it sings to the roots of the world.
Lyra's strikes echo with artful fury.
Aira? You didn't even see her before your brother dropped, his mask cracked like pottery.
And Rin? His eyes glow with something old, something elemental, and the ground itself fights for him.
You want to run.
You will.
But you'll remember. You'll carry this fire in your bones until the day you're ash.
When the last enemy fled into the trees, Kaien lowered his sword.
The blade dripped not with blood, but with memory.
The Spiral Tree shimmered above, its blossoms trailing like breath in the starlit wind.
Around him, the grove settled—slowly, carefully. Aira helped a wounded scholar to his feet, pressing cloth against a wound with steady hands. Lyra stood with her blade planted in the earth, hair stuck to her cheeks, breathing hard but alive. Rin exhaled, leaning against the twisted bark of an ancient elm, wards flickering out one by one.
Kaien stepped forward, the ash beneath his boots giving way like whispers.
He looked skyward.
"We bleed," he murmured, low and sure, "but we do not break."
A hush followed his words. Then a breeze stirred the branches above.
From the highest reach of the Spiral Tree, a single iron blossom fell—glowing faintly violet.
The Accord had stirred again.
And the Hollow?
The Hollow remembered.
And it was still burning.