The western path was unmarked.
No maps, no roads, no signs—only ancient rumors and scattered whispers about the mountain range known as the Charred Spines. Legend held that beneath those jagged peaks, the First Flame had been sealed—buried within a blade forged by the last Flameking himself, too powerful to exist in any world ruled by gods.
Kael and Elira traveled on foot.
Even their emberborn mounts refused to enter the region.
"Too much death in the ground," Elira had said. "Even fire remembers."
By the fourth day, they reached the edge of the Weeping Woods—a cursed forest where the trees bled sap as black as tar, and shadows whispered in voices older than language.
Kael paused before entering.
"Are we sure the sword lies beyond this?"
Elira nodded grimly.
"The Codex points west. And there's only one place west of here where light doesn't reach."
Kael glanced down at the Codex—it had opened itself again, its pages fluttering as if caught in an invisible wind. On the newest page, five words had appeared, carved in flame:
"Beneath the silence, truth burns."
They stepped into the forest.
At first, only the creak of dead branches accompanied them. But as the sun faded behind the mist, other sounds began to crawl through the air—crackling whispers, the rustle of unseen movement, and worse: the occasional sobbing of a child that vanished the moment Kael turned.
"Illusions?" he asked.
"No," Elira said. "Memory echoes. This forest drank the blood of thousands."
"From what war?"
She looked ahead.
"From the first one we lost."
They reached the heart of the Weeping Woods at dusk.
There, half-buried in vines and black roots, stood a ruined stone gate—arched, engraved with runes long faded by time. The center of the arch shimmered faintly with reddish mist.
"This is it," Elira whispered. "The entrance to Hollowreach."
Kael frowned. "The Hollowborn live here?"
"They linger here. Nothing alive lives in Hollowreach. Not anymore."
She stepped forward and placed her hand on the gate. Fire glyphs surged from her palm, lighting the runes across the arch in violent crimson. The mist parted like curtains of blood.
Kael followed her in.
Hollowreach was a necropolis.
Carved deep beneath the mountain, it stretched for miles—tunnels of bone, temples of obsidian, and vast underground halls littered with broken armor and shattered masks.
As they walked, Kael saw murals on the walls—depictions of men and women burning alive, their eyes hollow, their mouths open in screams.
"The Hollowborn," Elira explained. "Once human. Burned by Ardarion's wrath. Cursed by the Temple. They were denied death, denied heaven, denied flame."
"So they became… what?"
"Empty. But angry."
A low chanting echoed from deeper within.
Not words—rhythms. Pulses. Like the beat of a giant, hollow heart.
Kael slowed his steps.
"They know we're here."
"They always do."
They entered a massive chamber.
At its center stood a throne of melted bone, surrounded by what remained of the Hollowborn—dozens of twisted figures, cloaked in shadow, with flickering embers trapped in their chests like stolen stars. Their faces were smooth, skin stretched tight like porcelain, eyes empty sockets that leaked ash.
One stepped forward—taller than the rest, draped in robes of smoke.
"Flameblood," the creature rasped. "The fire returns to the crypt that made it."
Kael held his ground.
"I came for the sword."
The creature—its voice layered with centuries—tilted its head.
"The blade is sealed. As was the pact."
Kael stepped forward.
"Then break the seal."
"And what do you offer for fire that once betrayed us?"
Kael hesitated.
He looked down at his hands—at the scars from Velcrath, at the lines of ember beneath his skin.
Then he met the Hollowborn's gaze.
"I offer truth. The world believes Ardarion burned you without mercy. But that wasn't the truth. You were burned because the Temple demanded it. Because you saw the fire's freedom—and they feared it."
A long silence followed.
Then, slowly, the creature extended one withered hand and touched Kael's forehead.
A vision rushed into Kael's mind:
A village burning in golden flame.
Children running from soldiers in Temple robes.
A king screaming in rage, not cruelty.
And behind it all—a High Priest smiling in the dark.
Kael gasped and fell to his knees.
The Hollowborn stepped back.
"You carry the truth. You are not your ancestor. But you are his legacy."
From the throne, a slab of black stone began to rise.
And from within it—a sword emerged.
It was like nothing Kael had ever seen.
The blade was forged of crystallized fire—translucent, glowing with an inner flame that pulsed like breath. Runes spiraled up the hilt, and when Kael touched it, the world went still.
"This is the First Flame."
"It remembers the sky before gods."
"It does not obey."
Kael lifted the blade.
It burned, but did not harm him.
Behind him, Elira smiled faintly.
"You did it."
Kael turned to the Hollowborn.
"Thank you."
But the tall creature shook its head.
"No. Thank you. For remembering us."
Then, without another word, the Hollowborn vanished—fading into smoke and ash, finally at rest.
That night, Kael stood at the mouth of Hollowreach, sword in hand.
The Codex opened once more, a new phrase written across its living page:
"One flame reclaimed. One truth remembered. Eight still burn."
Elira placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Now the Temple will feel you coming."
Kael nodded, fire gleaming in his eyes.
"Then let them burn."