The path north was unkind.
They left the Ember Archive behind under moonless skies, guided only by the dim pulsing of the heartshard Ardyn carried and the starlight reflected off jagged peaks. The road wound deeper into the heart of the Forgotten Ridge—a land stripped of mercy long before the Dominion raised its first banners.
Seris moved ahead, navigating the near-invisible trails with the silent certainty of someone who had memorized danger by necessity. Kael guarded the rear, ever-watchful, the grip on his sword tighter with each day that passed.
And Ardyn… Ardyn felt himself changing.
It was in the way the wind bent around him, warm even when snow clung to the mountains. In the way his footsteps sometimes echoed like footsteps behind him. The Sigil beneath his skin had grown restless—no longer merely branding him, but threading itself deeper into his marrow.
On the third night, he dreamt again.
Only this time, the First Flame didn't speak. It simply stood, watching, its body composed of burning silhouettes—thousands of faceless ancestors and wielders long turned to ash.
When he woke, the shard was pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
---
They crossed the Icewound Pass before dusk.
Seris paused atop a bluff overlooking the Valley of Whispers. Below, a ruin stretched wide and broken—shattered towers, collapsed spires, and half-submerged bridges that once led to the lost temple-city of Vael'Torin.
"We'll rest here," she said. "We're close enough to the northern ravines. If the Dominion scouts haven't picked up our trail yet, they will soon."
Kael frowned at the city below. "You sure it's safe?"
Seris offered a wry smile. "Safe? No. But forgotten? Hopefully."
They made camp beneath a crumbled archway just beyond the city's edge. Ardyn found a moment alone, walking toward what once might've been a temple square. Moss choked the stones. Statues of old gods had fallen, their faces worn smooth by centuries of wind and silence.
But in the center of the square, untouched by ruin, stood a single monument.
A sword, fused with stone. No rust. No vines. Just silence.
Ardyn approached slowly. The heartshard in his coat pulsed with heat the closer he came.
Inscribed at the base were the words:
"When the Flame forgets, the blade remembers."
He stared at the sword. It bore no crest. No markings. And yet, he felt a strange pull—an echo in his blood, like recognition.
"Yours?" came Seris's voice behind him.
He turned slightly. "Feels like it should be."
She stepped closer. "This place… Vael'Torin was a temple city, yes. But not just to gods. It honored the Keepers. The flamebearers before the Thrones ever existed. The ones who first bound the Sigils to mortal form."
Ardyn looked back at the blade. "So this is where it began."
Seris nodded. "And where many thought it ended."
He reached out—and the moment his fingers brushed the hilt, fire surged up his arm, not burning, but searing through memory. Visions flickered across his mind—faces lost, voices rising in ancient tongues, a battlefield lit by orange sky.
Then… nothing.
He staggered back. The sword remained unmoved, fused with the earth.
Seris caught him. "What did you see?"
Ardyn's breath was ragged. "A war. Not the one we're fighting. One much older. And a woman… she bore the same brand I do."
Seris's eyes narrowed. "A Reclaimer?"
"No." Ardyn looked toward the stars, feeling the weight of centuries press on his chest. "Something older. Something we forgot."
---
Later that night, Kael took watch while Seris and Ardyn rested. Though "rest" was a generous term. Ardyn barely closed his eyes.
The fire they built crackled low, its flames oddly cold to the touch—an illusion, perhaps, or the magic bleeding from the shard near Ardyn's side.
"You're changing," Seris said quietly.
Ardyn didn't respond.
She continued, voice calm but not unkind. "You hide it better than most. But it's happening faster than it should. The shard—whatever it woke—it's accelerating the bond."
"I know."
"Then why haven't you told Kael?"
Ardyn stared into the flame. "Because he still believes I'll survive this."
Seris studied him. "And you don't?"
"I believe I'll reach the throne. But I don't know if the man who does will still be me."
A pause. Then Seris whispered, "Then let me be your tether."
He turned to her, startled. She shrugged, looking away. "Not out of pity. Or loyalty. But because I've seen what the Dominion does when a Sigil loses itself. I'd rather walk into fire than see you become one of them."
Ardyn's voice was barely audible. "Thank you."
They sat in silence after that, both too tired to unpack what had just been said—and too scared to pretend it didn't matter.
---
The next day, they moved through Vael'Torin in search of a hidden vault Seris believed was buried beneath the Hall of Cinders. Dominion scholars had long written the place off as rubble, but Seris was sure a portion of the temple had survived, tucked beneath the fallen plaza.
Kael found a sunken stairwell behind a collapsed altar. The stone was slick with lichen and blood-wine moss, but the descent opened into a hollow chamber lit by dormant flame-lamps.
Seris lit one with a whispered incantation. A soft orange glow filled the space, revealing muraled walls—paintings of flame-bearers, warriors, and something else.
A creature made of smoke and chains.
Kael tilted his head. "Is that…"
Ardyn stepped closer, tracing the mural. The figure was massive, horned, half-shackled, its mouth a gaping abyss. Below it, a line of sigil-bearers stood—one from each generation. Some were crowned. Others robed. All were burning.
"It's the Hollow Flame," Ardyn said, voice distant. "The cost of power. The thing beneath the fire."
Seris stepped beside him. "Not just cost. Catalyst."
"What do you mean?"
She gestured toward the center of the mural, where a single bearer knelt before the creature. "That one… that's you."
Ardyn blinked. "No. That's impossible. This mural is centuries old."
"Exactly."
They all turned, suddenly aware the air had shifted.
The flame-lamps dimmed.
From the stairwell behind them came a low rumble—followed by the slow creak of stone shifting.
They weren't alone.
---
Kael reacted first, drawing his blade and moving to the entrance. Seris pulled Ardyn behind a broken pillar, eyes darting to the mural, then to the relics lining the chamber walls—old scrolls, sigil fragments, and in one case, what looked like a broken helm humming faintly with heat.
Three Dominion Wraiths entered the chamber. Their armor was blackened with ancient ash, their eyes covered with steel visors. They moved like shadows, quiet and coordinated.
Kael charged first.
The clash was fast, brutal. Kael moved like a storm—swing, parry, feint, stab. One Wraith fell, but the others retaliated. Seris pulled a dagger from her boot, hurling it into the visor of the second.
The third reached Ardyn.
Time slowed.
The fire within him surged—wild, volatile. He felt his limbs go heavy, his pulse racing. He raised his hand, and the Sigil blazed to life.
The Wraith stopped mid-strike. Its body caught fire from within—screaming in a voice that wasn't human.
When the flames died, only ash remained.
Kael panted, wiping blood from his mouth. "We need to move. They'll know we're here now."
Seris nodded, retrieving a half-burned scroll. "I think I found what we came for."
Ardyn stood silent. His hand still burned.
And the heartshard… it had cracked slightly.
---
They exited the ruins by nightfall, returning to the surface just as snow began to fall. The Valley of Whispers lived up to its name—wind carried voices that weren't theirs, whispers in tongues no longer spoken.
They camped only long enough to study the scroll.
It spoke of the Reaper's Gate.
Of a crossing hidden in the northern scarlands, where flame-bearers once passed to test their right to hold power. Where the First Flame had been caged… and where it could be unbound.
"It's more than a symbol," Seris said, voice hushed. "It's a seal. The Sigil isn't just a brand—it's a lock. And Ardyn…"
"I'm the key," he finished.
Kael rubbed his jaw. "Then we're walking straight into the jaws of the Flame."
Ardyn looked north. Toward the Reaper's Gate. Toward destiny. Toward death.
"No," he said, voice steel. "We're not walking in. We're breaking it."