The capital of Aetherholde shimmered beneath a dull sky, its marble spires rising like frozen lances over the glimmering blue river that curled through its heart. To most, the city represented civilization—order, law, and centuries of power layered like stone upon stone.
To Duncan, it was a cage.
The iron gates swung open for his caravan with a slow creak, banners flapping above them—emblazoned with the twin dragons of the Empire. The guards saluted him, but their eyes lingered on his armor, on the dark-stained spear Brannoc carried, and most of all… on the silver-flamed medallion glowing faintly on his chest.
He was no longer just a soldier.
He was something they feared—and needed.
The Hall of Ten
The Hall of Ten was the heart of Aetherholde's ruling class. Ten lords—five from the central imperial bloodlines, five from the outer dominions—held final say on matters of war, expansion, and policy. Once, they had ruled with unity.
Now, they ruled with caution. With mistrust.
Duncan stood in the central chamber beneath a massive dome of stained glass, the soft glow of noon pouring in as if the gods themselves listened.
Lord Auren Deymoor, head of the imperial military council, studied Duncan like one might a dangerous relic.
"You expect us to believe an ancient beast-king rose from his grave simply to test you?"
"I don't expect you to believe anything," Duncan replied. "But I've brought evidence. Ruins, witnesses. And the shard of the orb from Dunemar. You've all read the reports."
Lady Virelle of Northreach leaned forward, voice sharp. "And what of this so-called 'Unformed' threat you speak of? Beasts of shadow? Sorcery?"
"They weren't sorcery," Duncan said flatly. "They were older than that. They were... echoes. Feeding on life. And they're spreading."
The room grew quiet.
Until a new voice spoke—smooth, unsettlingly calm.
"You've been marked, Commander."
The Hollow Flame
The speaker stepped forward from the shadows along the eastern colonnade.
He wore the robes of a court scribe, but his presence felt wrong—too composed, too still.
Kael's hand slid to her spear.
The man smiled faintly. "Forgive me. I am Armand of the Records Office. I've been tasked with overseeing matters regarding relic activity within imperial borders. We've followed your progress with… great interest."
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "You're not just a record keeper."
Armand's smile widened. "Correct. I am a listener of the Hollow Flame."
The Hall erupted with shouts.
Brannoc stepped forward, axe half-raised. "That's a cult. Traitors. You should be executed on the spot."
But none of the Ten moved.
Lady Virelle said coldly, "The Hollow Flame is sanctioned under Imperial Decree Forty-Six. As long as they do not violate civil law, they are free to advise."
Duncan stared at her. "You're letting them into the palace?"
Armand spread his hands. "We study what your people destroy. We preserve what the Empire forgets."
A Warning Ignored
The meeting broke soon after, as all such meetings did—with half-truths, vague orders, and promises of future discussions.
Duncan stormed out of the Hall, Kael and Brannoc at his heels.
"They're blind," Kael spat. "Or worse, they're compromised."
"They don't believe until it's clawing at their gates," Brannoc muttered.
Duncan didn't speak.
Not until they reached the quiet of the barracks compound, where the soldiers loyal to the frontier still held sway. There, under the banner of the Iron Sigil, he gathered his own men.
Old war-hardened veterans. Scouts. Beast-trackers. Even a few wildborn defectors.
He stood before them and spoke.
"The capital won't act until it's too late. So we will."
The Burning Mark
That night, the dreams returned.
Duncan stood in fire.
The world around him was ash and bone. And in the center, a silver flame pulsed—alive, breathing, watching.
He stepped closer.
The flame spoke without words, its heat wrapping around him like a second skin. It didn't burn—it reminded. Of blood spilled in defiance. Of oaths broken. Of ancient beasts that once knelt only to the wild.
A voice echoed from the fire:
"You carry what was stolen. You wake what was buried."
"Will you become it? Or be devoured by it?"
When Duncan awoke, the medallion was no longer glowing.
It was burning against his chest.
Paths That Cross
In the alleyways of the lower quarter, another meeting took place.
Armand, the Hollow Flame scribe, met with a woman cloaked in green silk and bone earrings. Her eyes shimmered with the same sickly hue that had once pulsed in Dunemar.
"He awakens too quickly," the woman said. "The flame sleeps still. He should not yet carry its weight."
Armand gave a small nod. "But he does. And he walks toward the mountain."
"Then we must hasten the circle," she whispered. "Before he burns down the old world."
Their hands brushed—just briefly.
The runes etched into their skin glowed faintly beneath the moonlight.