The wind was different in the Northlands.
It didn't howl. It whispered—like the dead had learned to speak in cold breaths. As Kael, Iris, and Vaerin crossed the frost-bitten valley that led beyond the known kingdoms, the skies dimmed even in daylight, and the snow seemed to avoid the flames that curled around Kael's footsteps.
They weren't alone.
Something had been tracking them for days. Something that didn't leave footprints.
The Map That Bled
The Thirteenth Archive wasn't marked on any map.
That was because the map was the Archive.
Vaerin unrolled a parchment carved into animal skin and slashed open his palm, letting blood drip across its surface. As the drops soaked in, ancient symbols glowed faintly, and an outline of a massive underground city appeared.
"There," Vaerin whispered, pointing at a symbol shaped like an eye with a crown. "The Gate of Oracles. Beneath that lies what even gods have forgotten."
"And what guards it?" Iris asked.
Vaerin only said, "Things made before death was invented."
The Crows of Velhkar
As they reached the black cliffs of Velhkar, a strange flock of birds circled above—too silent, too still.
They landed in front of the group, talons clicking against stone, and one shifted. Its form twisted and stretched until it stood as a man—or something like one. Eyes like wells, limbs thin and crooked.
"Who bears the fire that remembers?" it asked.
Kael stepped forward, his sigil glowing faintly beneath his shirt.
"I do."
The creature bowed—not in respect, but in recognition.
"You seek what was sealed. Know this: The Archive only opens to those who have forgotten their name."
"And if I haven't forgotten?" Kael asked.
"Then you will."
The Crows vanished.
Beneath the Gate
They found the entrance at twilight—half-buried in snow and vines, a massive circular door engraved with overlapping languages. The symbols lit up as Kael approached. The ground trembled. The mountain shifted, groaning like it was waking from sleep.
"It's alive," Iris whispered.
Kael placed his hand on the center glyph.
It burned.
Visions surged through him—old gods speaking in spirals, names unpronounceable, truths so heavy they bent reality. He saw cities older than memory, beasts that could swallow continents, and a throne built from the bones of stars.
And then he saw himself—on that throne.
His eyes black.
His hands soaked in fire and blood.
The Archive Speaks
The door split open.
Inside was a city frozen in time—its walls were veins of crystal, pulsing like a heartbeat. Statues of horned beings lined the streets, and above them all floated an orb of flame, encased in chains that hummed with forbidden magic.
The Heart of Memory.
"That's it," Vaerin breathed. "The last pure fragment of pre-god knowledge."
Kael stepped forward—and the orb spoke.
"Child of Ash. Scorched blood. Remember."
The orb burst into light and poured its contents into Kael's mind. He screamed. Fell to his knees. Flames erupted from his back in the shape of wings—brief, ethereal.
He saw it all.
How the gods betrayed their own.
How the flame was never a curse—it was a weapon stolen from the Primordial Flame to destroy them.
And how Kael's ancestor had tried to finish what they started… but failed.
"You are the last wielder," the voice echoed. "The flame has no master. Only a choice."
The Choice Begins
Kael stood, trembling.
His eyes no longer glowed—they burned.
"What now?" Iris asked, voice hushed.
"Now," Kael said, "we stop surviving and start hunting. If the gods want to erase me… I'll erase them first."